


all that is not mine

by figure8



Series: it's not where you come from (it's where you belong) [5]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Superman - All Media Types, Teen Titans - All Media Types
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Foster Family, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coming of Age, Custody Battle, Eating Disorders, F/M, Families of Choice, Family Dynamics, Forbidden Love, Foster Care, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Questionable Depiction of Gymnastics, Sports
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-09-27
Packaged: 2018-05-19 15:02:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5971237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/figure8/pseuds/figure8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“So you’re just going to—what, give up? Dick,” Jason insists. “Gymnastics is like… your one true love.”</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Dick looks away at that, his smile tired and bitter. “Well, we don’t always get to have our one true love, do we?”</i>
</p><p>--</p><p>Adapting to his new life with the Waynes would be a lot easier for Jason if he wasn't too busy trying to repress his feelings for his foster brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> well well well. here we go again! sorry for the wait, first chapters are always a pain to get out. this installment will probably be waaay longer than _i was naive_ , so buckle up kids! there are at least 10 chapters planned so far.  
> if you're new here, you might want to pay a visit to part 1 first. 
> 
> a gigantic thank you to my darling [hummy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemachines) for the beta, and of course to [blandine](http://archiveofourown.org/users/artemine) for being both my muse and faithful cheerleader. 
> 
> i tag triggers as they appear, but consider this a blanket trigger warning for the whole fic: this verse is about kids with shitty lives. most of them have faced some kind of abuse at some point. i think the tone of my writing is lighter than it could have been with such a subject, but i do strive for realism. if you're unsure about how upsetting this might be for you, you can always shoot me an ask on [tumblr](http://bibrucewayne.tumblr.com/) or mention me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/dick_grayson). more generally, you're all very welcome to come talk to me on twitter. i mainly yell into the void about how the batfam is ruining my life. 
> 
> enjoy <3

 

> _I’m wasted, losing time_  
>  _I’m a foolish, fragile spine_  
>  _I want all that is not mine_  
>  _I want him but we’re not right_
> 
> _—_ Daughter, _Smother_

 

The boy in the mirror doesn’t look like Jason Todd.

In his school uniform (a marine jumper with a dark grey vest and grey slacks, a golden G embroidered above his heart), Jason can almost believe he is a Wayne. It has almost been three weeks since Bruce signed the papers and officially became his foster father, but on some days, especially in the mornings, it still feels like something he made up, something he dreamed. He’s afraid he’s going to wake up.

“Jason, you ready?” He can see Dick’s wild black hair reflected on the spotless glass as his foster brother peaks into the bathroom they share. When Jason was staying in the guestroom down the corridor, he had one of his own, but to be quite honest he thinks he might prefer this. Dick is messy but surprisingly easy to live with. His side of the bathroom is a clutter of razors, toothbrushes and shampoo bottles, but he never steps into Jason’s space, and Dick is partial to showering in the evening while Jason is more of a morning person, so it’s working out. Jason likes the reminder that he’s living with an actual, semi-functioning family now. He says _semi_ -functioning because as illustrated by what is happening _right now_ , three teenage boys and one toddler are not exactly the best example of peace and order one can give.

“Just one sec,” he tells Dick, checking one last time that his hair is combed properly and that his blue tie is sitting straight under his jumper. The Gotham Preparatory Academy doesn’t joke about uniform regulation. Really, Gotham Prep doesn’t joke about much of anything, which is why Jason is still very dubious about how he made it in a month and a half after the school year has already started, even if they’re making him retake a grade as expected. He doesn’t even want to think about how much money Bruce is spending on his education. The man assured him multiple times that the tuition is just pocket money to him; but Jason was raised by a single mother with a heroin problem. The acerbic taste of hunger isn’t something one forgets easily.

“I’m waiting for you in the car!” he hears Dick yell, running down the stairs. And then, “Tim, for the love of God!”

When Jason gets downstairs, his school bag slung over one shoulder, Clark stops him before he reaches the door.

“Hey, Jason, hi. I didn’t see you at breakfast,” he says conversationally. “Do you want Alfred to pack you anything?”

Jason hopes his tight smile doesn’t seem too fake. “Nah, I’m good. Thank you though.” He motions to the window, from which they can both see Dick waving impatiently at them. “I—I gotta go, he’s going to strangle me.”

Clark goes to ruffle his hair and then freezes midair, remembering Jason is supposed to remain presentable. “That would be hard to explain to your social worker,” he winks. “Run.”

 

Tim shoves an energy bar in his face the moment Jason climbs into the Jeep.

“ _Eat it_ ,” he orders, unflinching.

“Fasten your seatbelt,” Jason says, grabbing the snack to put it in his bag. “I’ll eat it later, promise.”

Tim looks at him intently, catching Jason’s gaze through the rearview mirror, and then decides the compromise is satisfying and sinks back into the backseat. On his left, Damian is sulking, listening to music through a giant set of headphones.

Dick is a pro at strategically breaking traffic laws, Jason has discovered. The older teen knows the configuration of the streets of this part of Gotham by heart, and he also knows exactly when to slow down so they never get pulled over _and_ manage to make it in time to Damian’s school and then theirs. While Dick drops Damian off, Tim quizzes Jason on World History facts. Tim skipped a year when he was younger, and as Jason was held back, they’re in the same grade. It’s a blessing and a curse. They share some classes, but most of Tim’s are AP ones, so Jason doesn’t actually see him much more than he sees Dick. At least he eats lunch with Tim most of the time, and he has managed to avoid the awkward phase every new kid has to go through, desperately looking for an empty spot to sit at in the cafeteria. Not that Jason minds being alone. It’s the attention that comes with it he doesn’t want.

“Okay,” Dick says cheerfully, getting back behind the wheel, “The monster has been successfully deposited and is someone else’s responsibility for the next seven hours. I am a free man.”

The days Dick only has afternoon practice are Jason’s favorite. No morning practice means Dick gets to wake up the same time as the rest of them and drive them. Dick is… on good days, Dick makes everything easy. His effortless joviality could be tiring, but it’s not. Instead it’s soothing, like a safety net. Jason wonders what their relationship would have been like if he had never seen Dick baring his teeth, a rageful shout on his lips and blood on his hands, all for Jason. Now he knows there is strength behind the grins, sharpness behind the vibrancy. On bad days… well, on bad days, nothing can be made easy. But that’s not Dick’s fault.

“None of us is going to be free much longer if you don’t press the accelerator,” Tim sighs. “We have exactly seven minutes left, and Jay and I have a World History test.”

“Chillax, Timbo,” Dick smiles as he twists the key and takes off, zigzagging between cars in a way no one should while driving a _godforsaken Jeep Grand Cherokee._ Tim hides his face in his hands, horrified.

“Why do you want us all to _die,_ ” he whines miserably.

Jason doesn’t really care, because he’s ridden with worse drivers than Dick, and also because Dick gets them into Gotham Prep’s parking lot in exactly four minutes and fifty seconds. Jason had his eyes on the clock.

“Have a good day at school, honey,” Dick teases his brother with a delighted grin, and Tim shoves his elbow in Dick’s ribs. “ _Ow_ ,” Dick protests. “Careful there, I’m this establishment’s athletic pride and joy.”

“Don’t trip on that ego of yours,” Tim snorts, grabbing his laptop bag from the trunk and slamming it shut. “Jay, you coming?”

“See you later?” Jason asks Dick, but the older boy is already trotting away to meet a tall lanky black boy with his sleeves rolled up and a pretty redhead with a pixie cut. Wally West and Megan Morse are just two of Dick’s many, _many_ friends. It’s always weird to be reminded that he’s technically a popular kid. He doesn’t exactly fit the profile. Jason’s gaze follows him until he disappears inside the building, racing with Wally, the two of them pushing each other playfully.

Walking next to Jason, Tim rolls his eyes. “What a jock.”

It’s said with fondness. Tim has nothing but admiration for Dick. _Damian_ has nothing but admiration for Dick, and isn’t _that_ a real feat.

“Your best friend is a jock,” Jason points out.

“Don’t remind me,” Tim groans. “If I have to sit through another football game holding a sign for him, I’m opening applications for his position.” He waves at Stephanie Brown, who is leaning against her locker, chatting with two other girls. “Hey Steph,” he smiles, all teeth, “I’m on the market for a new best friend. You interested?” She stares at him like he’s grown a second head, twirling a lock of her blond hair around her finger, and then goes back to her discussion. “That went fantastically,” Tim deadpans.

Jason can’t help but chuckle. “Are you sure she even knows your name?”

“I’m a Wayne,” Tim says. “Of course she knows who I am.” He clutches his bag to his chest defensively as they scurry down the hall.

Jason doesn’t yelp when Conner Kent _jumps_ on Tim from behind right before they enter their World History classroom. He _doesn’t_.

“Bro!” Conner beams at Tim, his hands still on Tim’s shoulders. “Hey, Jase,” he greets Jason politely. Jason just nods. Conner has made it very clear he’s not interested in making friends with him.

For a fancy private school, Gotham Prep sure looks a lot like some of the charter schools the state likes to send kids like Jason to, sometimes. The equipment is top of the line, obviously, and the building is old and gorgeous, and there’s that uniform thing he’s still not entirely used to; but the people are the same, just richer. The athletes are at the top of the food chain, there’s always two kids making out behind the bleachers, and everyone loathes World History. It’s a universal constant, probably. Jason actually loves history in itself, it’s just the relentless quizzing on dates he can’t take. That’s not what history is supposed to be about. He made the mistake of complaining about it once during dinner, and Tim launched into an ardent defense of the American school system, only to be interrupted by Bruce and his notorious hatred of standardized testing. Dick had to be excused from the table because he was laughing so hard he choked on a bite of asparagus. This is Jason’s life now, apparently.

They have Chemistry during second period, and Mr. Allen has paired him and Tim together as lab partners because the last time Conner and Tim worked together in a chemistry lab, they set something on fire. Cassie Sandsmark, who ended up with Conner, looks like she would have preferred to see Gotham Prep go up in flames. Watching Conner fight with the microscope, Jason understands and respects her position.

“Jason,” Tim nudges his arm, “Pass me the dropper.”

They’re supposedly measuring the pH of the solution the mixed earlier, only their indicator has turned bright yellow and everyone around them has a purple one.

“I’m usually better at this,” Jason mumbles, looking down. Tim doesn’t say anything, just focuses on the small strip of pH revealing paper, biting his tongue in concentration.

“Ah,” he says after a while, “Sorry, my fault. I forgot the chloride.”

“Can we add it now?” Jason asks.

“I mean,” Tim says, shaking the dropper, “I don’t think it can get any worse.”

Jason eyes him suspiciously. “Is it going to explode in my hands?”

“I would never do that to you,” Tim smiles, the picture of innocence. “No, really,” he insists. “Dad would have my head.”

In any other circumstance, with any other foster brother, Jason would have joked that everyone would have been happy to get rid of him. But as surreal as it may still feel, this family _wants him here_. Bruce went back for him. “Do your worst,” he tells Tim, opening the test tube so he can add the chloride. The solution fizzes, bubbles sticking to the glass.

“I’m gonna get a clean indicator,” Tim announces, but the bell rings before he can even get off his stool. “Sorry I messed up your first chem experience here,” he says as they exit the classroom.

“It’s cool, man,” Jason shrugs. He wants to ask if they’re having lunch together today, but Conner appears behind Tim before Jason can open his mouth.

“Come on,” he tugs at Tim’s sleeve, “We need to talk to Tanya about the English lit project.”

 _Sorry_ , Tim mouths silently, letting his best friend drag him away. Jason just shakes his head.

He has this period free, and he’s already set on his homework, so Jason just wanders around a little. He knows most of this building by heart by now, but there are two other pavilions he’s not yet familiar with. Gotham Prep sits in a big park in the middle of the city, the 18th century edifice that serves as the main building right in the middle of it. The two other constructions are more modern, add-ons from the beginning of the 20th century. There’s a gymnasium, too, right next to the running tracks and the football field. Jason’s feet take him there as he walks absently, until he finds himself inside, between the locker rooms and the gym space. There’s no rule against watching the sports team practice, but Jason still feels oddly out of place, so he just plasters his face to the glass and looks inside the training room like a creep.

The gymnastics team is practicing. They must have a free period or something, because Jason can’t see Coach Smith, and not all of them are there. He recognizes Bette Kane, her long golden hair held back tightly in a bun, her body spinning wildly as she throws herself in the air and then lands perfectly on her toes. Donna Troy, in a scintillating black leotard, is swinging back and forth lazily on the uneven bars.

And then there’s Dick. He’s dressed in black and blue spandex, arms bare. Holding himself on one hand on the floor, muscle visibly straining and black hair tousled, he looks like a drawing, like someone out of a movie. He opens his legs slowly, until they’re almost perpendicular to the rest of him, and Jason feels himself blushing, like he’s watching something he’s not supposed to be seeing. Dick somersaults back to his feet with a grin, and Bette runs to him and _flies_ into his arms, and he catches her by the waist, supports her above his head. It’s beautiful.

He observes them a little longer and then leaves, hides behind the building and lights a cigarette. There are no security cameras in this angle, and he’s been craving one since this morning.

“These things will kill you,” a voice says on his left, teasingly.

“Fuck off, Richard,” Jason smiles. “How did you know I was here?”

“You were watching us,” Dick says, sliding down to sit next to him. He’s still wearing that _ridiculous_ leotard. The black spandex covering his legs looks even more indecent than if his thighs were naked, in Jason’s humble opinion. “I saw you leaving.”

“Tim has AP English,” Jason explains. “I didn’t feel like waiting doing nothing.”

“You could always make other friends,” Dick says, not unkindly.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Jason snorts. “Always making new friends.”

Dick stares at him for a moment. “I’m just saying. People like you when you drop the act.”

“What act?” His voice comes out a little raspy, a little hurt. He needs to learn how to control himself around Dick, but it’s hard when the older teen reads him so easily. It’s a little scary.

“You know what I’m talking about,” Dick rolls his eyes. “The tough guy attitude, you don’t need it here. No one’s going to hurt you, Jay.”

“I have to go back to class,” Jason says, getting up. It’s a lie. He still has a good quarter of an hour. Dick doesn’t call him out on it.

“Okay,” he just says. “I’m going back inside.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t want to catch a cold now golden boy, huh?” Jason scoffs. “You were,” he says more seriously, trying to find an appropriate word. “Good,” he finishes lamely. “Impressive. What you do.”

Dick lights up under the praise. “It’s in my blood,” he smirks, slipping back inside. “See you later, Jay.”

 

\--

 

“So,” Conner asks, putting his legs up on the wooden table like an asshole, “When is he leaving?”

They’re eating outside, enjoying the sun while it lasts. The day is surprisingly nice for mid-October.

“ _Kon_ ,” Tim hisses. “He’s not leaving, I told you. He’s here long term.”

His best friend just looks at him for a while, probably trying to read his expression. Tim pulls his knees up to his chest, feeling weirdly defensive.

“He’s a foster kid,” Conner says finally, as if that explains everything. “They move around.”

“I was a foster kid,” Tim glares.

“No you weren’t,” Conner rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on,” he sighs when Tim just stares, clearly offended, “You were a foster kid for like twelve minutes before your dad swooped in.”

“My _dad_ ,” Tim grits, “Is in a _coma_.” He then seems to realize what he just said and covers his mouth in a gasp.

“Tim,” Conner says, trying to reach for him when Tim stands up and starts packing his things. “Tim, shit, I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” Tim shakes his head. He knows he sounds curt and upset, but Conner will survive.

“No,” Conner says, curling his fingers around Tim’s bony wrist. “Hey, no, I’m sorry.” Tim’s eyes fall on Conner’s hand, and Conner lets go of him as if he was burned. “Sorry,” he repeats aimlessly.

“I know you don’t like him,” Tim starts, voice strained.

“I do not _not like him_ ,” Conner mumbles.

“I know you don’t like him,” Tim says again, unmoved, “But he’s family, at least for the time being, and you can’t talk about him that way.”

“I really didn’t mean…” Conner begins, and then he lets his sentence trail off.

“Yeah,” Tim says.

“Are you gonna sit down?”

“No.” He tosses his backpack over his shoulder, grabs his half-eaten sandwich and his bottle of water. “I’ll see you later.”

“Okay,” Conner nods warily. There’s a part of Tim that wants to tell him it _is_ okay, that he’s forgiven. There’s also a part of Tim boiling with anger, and that part is winning at the moment, so Tim leaves their table before he punches his best friend in the face.

It shouldn’t shake him the way it does. He knows where he stands. Bruce and Clark are his parents, Dick and Damian are his brothers. Nothing will ever change that, nothing _can_. The bond they share has nothing to do with blood. But in the darkest corners of his own mind, Tim envies Dick. It’s a terrible thing to say, obviously. Dick lost his parents in the most horrific way there is; he lost _everything_ in the snap of a wire, in a single dreadful second. But at least he got a clean cut, and there is no going back. Dick has no trouble seeing Bruce as a father because he has no choice, no dilemma. Tim has a dad with a beating heart and memories that will never leave, and a last name he still refuses to give up. And Bruce knows that. That’s the worst thing, probably; that’s what’s holding _Tim_ back. This endless vicious circle that keeps robbing him of the possibility of letting go and finally fully becoming a Wayne.

He’s so deep in thought he doesn’t realize the person in front of him stopped abruptly, so he just keeps walking and bumps into them rather violently.

“Shit,” he groans, blond hair in his eyes.

“ _Seriously?_ ” Stephanie Brown’s voice rings sharply, because _of course._ The content of her tray is on the floor; macaroni spilled everywhere, her brick of apple juice in a weird not very brick-like shape anymore. Most of the cafeteria is now staring at them.

“I’m _so_ sorry,” Tim splutters. “Can I get you a new lunch?”

“Oh my god,” she groans exasperatedly, “No, I don’t—I don’t need a new lunch, I need you to _step away from me_.”

It stings more than it probably should. Man, this day really is _shitty_. “Okay,” Tim says, palms up, defeated.

He crouches and starts gathering the food on the floor with the help of Stephanie’s wayfaring fork, and she watches him for a minute before sighing and kneeling next to him to take it from his hand.

“Jesus, just let me do it.”

“No,” Tim insists. He pushes the remaining macaroni onto the tray and stands up. “I’m going to—I’m going to throw this away. Have a nice day. Sorry about your food—again.”

Steph looks at him circumspectly. “O-okay. You do you.”

He knows it’s probably not _actually_ the case, but he can feel eyes burning on his back, everyone mocking him wordlessly.

“Not now, anxiety,” he mutters to himself as he slides the tray on the rack.

“You know there are far more efficient ways to get your crush to notice you,” a voice teases fondly on his right. Tim raises his eyes and sees Dick, in the sports version of the Gotham Prep uniform, his hair still damp from the shower he most likely took after practice.

“Don’t start,” Tim warns.

“Oh, come on,” Dick laughs, getting rid of his own tray, “It wasn’t that bad.”

“It was an absolute disaster and I hate you deeply.”

They walk together towards the exit of the cafeteria. Dick has his hands in the pockets of his jogging pants, nonchalance personified. Tim wishes he could be more like that.

“I wonder where Jason buys his cigarettes,” Dick says out of the blue.

“What?”

“I found him smoking behind the gymnasium. Who sells smokes to a fifteen year old?”

“It’s Gotham,” Tim ponders. “I don’t know, he looks older. And he’s almost sixteen.”

“Still.”

“Did you say anything to him?”

They’ve arrived in front of the classroom Tim is supposed to go into. Dick leans back against the wall, looking away. “Not really.” A few girls from Tim’s grade are amassed a little further away from them, giggling while covertly staring at his brother.

“Don’t smile,” Tim whispers, scoffing, “I think Tanya is actually going to pass out if you do.”

“Yeah?” Dick chuckles, and he’s _grinning_ , of course. “Hi, girls!” he waves, his voice loud enough for the whole hallway to hear.

“You have no idea how easy you’ve got it,” Tim sighs mournfully.

Dick arcs an eyebrow.

“He’s right,” Jason says, coming to sit down on the floor next to them. “Hey,” he tells Tim, “I didn’t catch you at lunch?”

“Sorry,” Tim bites his bottom lip, “There was… an incident.”

“Tim collided with Stephanie and made her drop her food,” Dick smirks. “It was beautiful. What do you mean he’s right?”

“You don’t need me to stroke your ego,” Jason huffs.

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” Dick laments. “I don’t actually have that big of an ego. I _don’t_!”

“Well,” Helena Bertinelli’s sweet voice rings as she walks up to Dick, hooks two of her fingers in his collar and drags him to her, “You should. You can back it up with hard facts.” Her hand leaves his shirt to trail down his abs at that, and it’s so cliché Tim could _barf_.

She’s really pretty, in a scary way. Dick seems to think so, at least, because he follows her with a star-struck look on his face without even saying goodbye.

“Girls,” Tim sighs.

“I guess,” Jason says, looking mildly uncomfortable. “Oh, look, it’s your shadow.” He points at Conner who is currently hurrying towards them, trying to make it to class before the bell rings.

“I think it’s the other way around,” Tim muses.

“Kid,” Jason says, looking him in the eye. “You’re never gonna be anyone’s shadow.”

 _What do you mean_ , Tim wants to ask, he’s _dying_ to ask, but Conner just arrived. He’s panting a little.

“Tim,” he begins.

“Don’t waste your breath,” Tim cuts him off. “You’re forgiven.”

“Okay?” Conner says. He doesn’t sound very sure.

The bell sound resonates loudly just as Tim goes to reassure him. Mrs. Moone opens the door.

“Alfred’s picking us up,” he tells Jason, and then scurries to the front of the class where he usually sits. Jason offers him a mock salute and picks a seat in the back.

 

\--

 

Clark is in the living room when they come back from school, his head between his hands and a bunch of opened letters in front of him on the table. Jason takes one look at him and disappears upstairs wordlessly.

“Hey,” Tim says, coming to sit next to him, “What’s up?”

“Hey,” Clark smiles weakly. “Ah, don’t worry about all this,” he starts piling up the papers. Tim doesn’t miss how he covers everything hastily with a magazine first. “Good day?”

“I guess.”

“And Jason, he’s doing okay?”

“Yeah,” Tim says. “Are they going to take Damian away from us?”

Clark chokes a little and tries to cover it up with a cough. “What?”

“You don’t have to pretend,” Tim says, taking his Geography textbook out of his bag and setting it open in front of him. “I heard you and dad argue last week.”

Clark raises an eyebrow. “Really.”

“Okay,” Tim blushes, a little defensive, “Maybe I intercepted dad’s mail. _Hey_ ,” he protests when Clark pokes him in the arm, “I was just worried! And also curious. I was very curious. I won’t do it again.”

“Of course you will,” Clark sighs, but it’s not a bad sigh. The corners of his mouth are lifting like he’s fighting a smile but he really can’t hold it anymore. “I don’t know, Timmy.” He says that very seriously, his gaze dark. “They’re certainly _trying_.” He points at the book. There’s a detailed map of Japan spreading on both pages. “You need any help with that?”

“Not really,” Tim shakes his head. “We’re doing Australia right now, I just figured I should learn about the Pacific in its entirety.”

Clark chuckles. “I’m pretty sure that’s what you’re going to be studying next, you tiny overachiever.”

“Australia is boring. Did you know the Japanese didn’t let Europeans in before 1867? They had serious trust issues.”

“I don’t blame them,” Clark mutters.

“They officially opened their borders in 1854 with the treaty of Kanagawa.” Tim turns around to see Jason, leaning against the doorframe, smirking. “Your book is off by thirteen years. Also, the Americans got there first.”

“Oh,” Tim frowns. “That’s strange, let me check the timeline.”

Clark clears his throat. “Do you need anything, Jay?”

“Yeah, actually. I was wondering if I could go into the city? Just to see a friend. I’ll take a bus, you don’t have to drive me or anything.”

“I don’t see why not,” Clark smiles gently. “Are you sure you don’t want me to get the car?”

“Nah,” Jason shakes his head. “It’s chill, there’s a direct bus.”

“Be home for dinner, okay?” Jason nods. “Do you have enough for the fare? And, oh, do you have your phone?”

“Yep to both. Thanks.”

Clark waves, “Have fun!” as Jason leaves, and then refocuses on Tim. “You’re going to work here?”

“Is that okay?”

The look Clark gives him is so tender Tim feels himself flinch. “Of course. You just usually prefer to lock yourself into your room.”

“I just like silence,” Tim shrugs, looking away. It’s easy to guess what Clark is thinking. They have an easy relationship. Words flow with way more ease than when he’s with Bruce, and that’s only half Bruce’s fault. Five years is a long time, but it’s also awfully short, in some respects. Tim was eight when he first met Clark, when Bruce took him in. It feels like an eternity ago, but even eternities are relative. Tim wishes he could give Clark the signs he wants and deserves. He doesn’t know how to explain the difference between parent and _father_. There isn’t one, when you’re a normal kid in a normal family.

“You know Bruce is going to fight this, right?” Clark asks. “Your father isn’t exactly the type to bow down to anyone, no matter how powerful they are.”

“I’m not afraid,” Tim says, but he’s pretty sure Clark knows he’s lying. It’s a funny thing. Damian hates him, or at least actively dislikes him, and he makes Tim’s life a literal hell most of the time. But Tim has rarely felt so agitated. The perspective of one more loss is eating at him.

“It’d be okay if you were,” Clark says diplomatically.

Tim shifts a little so he can knock their shoulders together, even if it ends up being more of his shoulder on Clark’s arm than anything else.

“You know what,” he says after they’ve stayed silent for a while, “I could use some help with my homework, actually.”

Clark’s smile is worth the ten minutes they lose on quadratic equations Tim has already solved.

 

\--

 

“So you good, where you are?” Jaime asks, motioning vaguely to him.

They’re in Jason’s old room at Boys United. Another dude has moved in since then, but he’s doing community service and won’t be back for at least another hour.

“I’m good,” Jason says. “Sorry I didn’t come by earlier.”

“Adaptation period, ese. I get it.” Jaime leans back against the wall, arms hugging his knees. “It’s been shitty here.”

“Yeah?”

“Joey is,” Jaime pauses to make a quote-unquote gesture, “expanding his territory.”

Jason snorts. “What does _that_ mean?”

“It means they’ve moved on to Gotham Elementary, and that he’s becoming confident and frankly a pain in the ass.”

“Did anyone…” Jason frowns, feeling a strange sense of dread. He has to remind himself he can’t protect everyone. It still tastes like defeat.

“No one has touched me, man. Relax.”

“They better not,” Jason mutters. “I’ll hang around more. Remind them you’re not alone.”

“I don’t need your protection, Jason.”

“Nah,” Jason sighs, “You don’t _want_ my protection. You definitely need it.”

“Yeah, and you’re going to save me,” Jaime snickers. “You and your gang.”

“Don’t go and join a gang,” Jason glares. “ _I_ won’t cut off your big toe if you fuck up.”

“They’re just a bunch of gringos thinking they’re better than everyone, Jase. I’m not scared of them.”

“What happened to _I’m ninety pounds soaking wet and they will eat me alive_?”

Jaime looks away. “It’s cool. I take out the trash when it’s Joey’s turn, really, it’s nothing. I shouldn’t have complained.”

“Okay,” Jason says, because he knows when to push, and now is not the right moment. “Do you want to tell me about that girl in your Chem class?”

Jaime throws a pillow at his face. “Do _you_ want to tell me about the rich kids at your school?”

 

Bruce calls Jason on the cellphone he was given when he came back to Wayne Manor. It’s an ‘old model’ in Bruce speech—which means it’s not a brand new iPhone, because Jason refused that.

“ _Clark told me you went out_ ,” Bruce says in lieu of greeting when Jason picks up.

“I’m at Boys United,” Jason says. “Just visiting.”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Bruce deadpans, “ _I figured you weren’t moving back in._ ” Jason can hear the sounds of traffic in the background, Gotham moving slowly, reordering herself for the night. _“I’m driving your way, do you need a lift?”_

Jason is fairly certain there is no reason for Bruce to be in this neighborhood, but he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Sure. That way I’ll make it back for dinner and Alfred won’t feel the need to throttle me.”

“ _Stay put_ ,” Bruce tells him, and Jason could swear he heard him laugh.

 

They don’t talk in the car but it’s the good kind of silence, the easy one. Jason appreciates that Bruce never pretended with him, that they never had to go through that awkward small talk phase. He realizes it means they skipped directly to the more intense stage of any relationship, but he doesn’t really mind. He doesn’t think Bruce knows how to interact otherwise anyway.

“Could I maybe get a bike?” he asks as they exit the highway, fingers playing nervously with the hem of his sweatshirt.

“You mean a bicycle?” Bruce clarifies, eyes on the road.

“Yeah. It’s just, Dick almost never comes home the same time Tim and I do, and I don’t want to bother Alfred or one of you every time I need to get out.”

“You want to bike all the way from the manor to Gotham Center?” Bruce is biting his lip, thinking.

“I don’t mind the exercise,” Jason shrugs, “And the bus takes longer, there’s only one every hour.”

“We’ll get you a bike,” Bruce says, “But as soon as it starts snowing, we’re talking about it again. I never want to see you without a helmet, is that clear?”

“Yeah, of course. Thank you so much.”

“It’s just a goddamn bike,” Bruce mumbles, pulling up in the driveway.

“It means a lot,” Jason insists. It does. It means _freedom_. He’s pretty sure Bruce understands that just as well as Jason does.

“Come on,” Bruce gets out of the car and pushes the button on his keys that unlocks the trunk, from where he fishes a briefcase, “I thought the whole point was not to be late for dinner.”

 

Everyone is already sitting around the large oval table in the dining room when they enter the manor.

“Hey,” Tim says enthusiastically when he sees his father, “Did you know the only Europeans Japan ever trusted were the Dutch, and that was because of their thriving boating industry?”

Clark chortles around a spoonful of vegetarian lasagna.

“Hey,” Dick says, his tone a bad imitation of Tim’s, “Did you know that when they invaded China, the Imperial Japanese soldiers tortured and slaughtered Chinese families before pillaging their towns, and then they burned everything that was left?”

“Can I at least sit down before World War III breaks out?” Bruce inquires, giving his coat to Alfred. Jason settles opposite Tim.

“ _Timothy_ ,” Dick glares, “Has a newfound passion for the Land of the Rising Sun.”

“It’s not my fault their history is fascinating,” Tim protests.

“Free Tibet,” Damian chimes in, fist raised, his voice scarily cool. Dick hides his face in his hands.

“Does anyone want to know a fun fact about Mexico?” Jason offers.

Clark bursts out laughing, quickly followed by everyone else. At the corner of his eye, Jason can even see Alfred hiding his mouth with his palm, shoulders shaking slightly. From across the table, Tim beams at him. Bruce asks Dick about practice, and his upcoming meet, and the conversation veers away from touchy subjects. The lasagna is delicious, like everything Alfred makes, and Jason focuses on just that for a while, the way the cheese melts in his mouth and how the spinach really tastes like spinach.

 

\--

 

Clark is already sleeping when Bruce slips under the covers next to him. The room is dark and soundless, a few drops of moonlight sliding in between the heavy curtains. His partner’s face is peaceful, a soft smile on his lips, and Bruce can’t resist leaning down and kissing his temple.

“Bruce?” Clark asks drowsily, shifting on the big mattress to move closer to him instinctively.

“Yeah, baby. Go back to sleep,” Bruce whispers.

“Tim knows—Tim knows about Damian,” Clark says, his cheek on Bruce’s chest. Bruce drops a second light kiss to the crown of his head.

“I figured,” he says, voice low. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow, go back to sleep,” he repeats.

“Okay,” Clark mumbles. He wants to say more, Bruce knows. It’s half the reason he avoided their room until it got really late. Not the healthiest or most honest of behaviors, but it’s for a good cause. Clark worries too much.

Clark worries because he knows Bruce. He knows him by heart, he knows him inside out, probably better than anyone. And that still scares the shit out of Bruce, even after all these years. There will always be a tiny part of him that believes the love he receives is undeserved. He will always strive to appear perfect and untouchable. It doesn’t matter that there is no point to all his facades, not with Clark, not in this house. What is there to hide from a man who’s seen you at your lowest?

“I love you,” Bruce tells Clark’s sleeping form, the words echoing in the black night, bouncing on the emptiness. It’s the easiest of truths. It comes to him like breathing. Sometimes it is _too_ easy, like a waterfall, flooding in. He has taught himself to keep it hidden, keep it locked inside. That’s one thing Clark doesn’t know, or maybe he does. Bruce doesn’t say these three words often not because they’re too hard to get out, but because he’s afraid that once he starts, he will never stop.

It’s an old fear, the nightmare of a child. What Bruce loves openly is always taken away from him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally!! oh my god!! i thought i would never publish this godawful chapter.   
> i’m so sorry, people. between midterms and going back home for break and tentatively reconnecting with everyone, i had like, zero time to breathe, let alone write. and then i went through a weird phase where i became very very insecure about this verse?? for some reason?? anyway.   
> HERE IT IS. and it’s… longer than what i had planned. darker, too. i now have a solid plan for this story, and it involves a lot more converging plot lines that what i had imagined at first. i just wanted to write about sad boys falling in love wtf. wtf   
> heed the tags! i’m adding them as i go. as you will understand by reading this, we’re getting into recurring themes of ptsd and trauma in general; and there are vague mentions of eating disorders in this chapter, too.   
> a few things i thought i’d make clear:  
> \- i’m making gymnastics a co-ed sport. it’s an alternate universe, aah, whatever. i really tried keeping the rules the closest possible to Real Life Gymnastics but it kept getting in the way of the plot. this is a weird hybrid, i guess. i was a high school athlete a few light years ago, but it wasn’t gymnastics and it wasn’t in the US, so like… i’m trying my best. bear with me.   
> \- my gotham is in new jersey. downtown gotham is urban and everything, but gotham prep is on the edges of the city and the manor is completely outside. the vibe i’m trying to go for is very Suburban(tm). i hope it shows.   
> \- it’s so hard?? to characterize everyone in this?? arghh?? i tried really hard to dissect their personalities and keep the core of it, what makes them /them/, without the influence of a world where they are superheroes. i very eagerly welcome feedback on this.
> 
> thank you all SO much for the way you interact with me, be it by comments, kudos, or on twitter and tumblr. when i started writing this story i was in a really bad place and it helped me a lot, and it keeps helping me, and it’s absolutely mind-blowing to see y’all react so positively to it. you make me so happy. 
> 
> ANYWAY. OH MY GOD WHEN WILL I SHUT UP. ENJOY YOUR READING, GUYS 
> 
> ohhhh before i forget. a lot of you have been asking for harley’s backstory. i posted a short story about her a few days ago but the subscription system fucked up so like… i’m just letting you know it exists.

There are very few things Dick loves more than flying. The precious seconds between the moment his hands let go of the rings and the one he lands on the mat are his only way of honoring his parents. As his body rotates and twists, he sees them clear as day, two beautiful angels in blue, soaring under the spotlight. He’ll never be as good, and it doesn’t matter. The only thing that does is this instant of communion; his very own holy space where he meets with the dead.

The crowd roars as his heels hit the ground, and Dick smiles through the impact before bowing to the stands. All gymnasts are pretenders, liars who feed the public the illusion that bending your body in directions it is not supposed to go is painless, _pleasant_. Dick learned the art of grinning while his bones scream at the tender age of four. His teammates all know the drill, but Dick was _born_ a performer.

As the scoreboard lights up and displays his almost perfect 9.9, Dick’s eyes search the audience. He finds his family easily: Bruce always sits on the left, third row; has been doing that since Dick was seven. When it was just him and Alfred watching Dick compete every two weeks, and Dick needed the quick reassurance of lifting his head and locking eyes with Bruce.

Now there are always at least five seats reserved in his name everywhere he goes to compete. When Gotham Prep are at home, it’s almost always a whole row, like today. Bruce, Clark, Tim, Damian, Alfred; and then most of his friends. He spotted Wally and Megan earlier, wearing the school colors. Conner’s there too, sitting right next to Tim. And on his little brother’s other side, there’s Jason.

It’s Jason’s first time at a Gymnastics meet, and Dick is eager to know what his new foster brother’s thoughts on the whole thing are. Bette still has her floor routine to execute, but Dick is fairly certain they’ve already scored enough points to secure their spot at the top of the rankings. He grabs his Gotham Prep sweater and pulls it on over his leotard. Now that he’s not moving anymore, even with the adrenaline still pumping through his veins, it’s starting to get cold. Trotting over to the bleachers where his teammates are sitting, all of them focused on what’s happening on the mat, he drops next to Donna with a smile.

“Good job,” Coach tells him, pressing his hand to Dick’s shoulder furtively.

“Thanks,” Dick beams, “I only aim to please.” His left foot can’t seem to stop moving, tapping increasingly fast against the hard floor. Donna pushes down on his knee as Coach rolls his eyes before turning his attention back to Bette.

“Where’s your Adderall?” she whispers, scooting closer to him. Their thighs are pressed together now and he can feel heat radiating from her body. He leans into it greedily.

“I have six hours until my next dose,” he replies, equally low. “I don’t know why I’m so hyper right now.”

“Calm down,” she orders. “The ground is trembling.”

Bette brings home a 9.8 like the rising star she is and the crowd erupts in applause and loud whistling. On the other side of the room, the East-End High girls are grimacing. This is their second big loss in a row, and their season probably won’t recover. From the corner of his eye Dick can see Raquel run to her boyfriend Gus and jump into his arms, as well as Jed and Mia gathering their things to move slowly towards the locker rooms. Donna pushes herself off the bench after running her hand up Dick’s arm.

“See you outside?”

“Yes,” Dick nods. He flings a towel over his shoulder and grabs the water bottle he stashed under the bench earlier, throws one last look to the stands, and then he goes to change. Leonid punches him in the shoulder playfully as soon as Dick’s crossed the threshold, grinning widely.

“Here he is, the Boy Wonder.”

“Nah,” Dick shrugs. “It was teamwork, man.”

“Yeah,” Jed snorts from where he’s drying his hair, “Stop congratulating him, Lenny. I, personally, refuse to say anything before you cash in a 10, asshole,” he turns to Dick.

“You know,” Dick teases, rummaging through his bag for his shower gel, “I always thought the one who would give me shit about an almost 10 would be my _Russian_ teammate, for some reason.”

“Tss,” Jed pinches the bridge of his nose in distaste. “That’s just vile stereotyping, Richie. From _you?_ I’m disappointed.”

Dick throws his dirty socks at Jed’s face. “Shut the fuck up, Jedediah.” It’s completely useless, as Jed catches them before they hit him, and just raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.

Leonid just stares at them for a whole minute, and then he sighs. “I’m hitting the showers, and then I’m joining the girls for celebratory dinner. You can stay here and argue, I guess.”

“I’m ready,” Jed says dismissively, fishing his one missing sneaker from under the benches. His dark hair is still damp, wetting the collar of his light-blue tee shirt.

When Dick walks into the communal showers, Leonid is almost done already. Soviet efficiency, he once joked, even if he’s spent most of his life in the States. Everything about Leonid is _efficient_ , from his quickness to his large shoulders. He’s build like a football player but he chose gymnastics, canalizing brute strength into something delicate and measured. Dick watches him for a while before he realizes he’s _watching him_ and turns away, blushing. He soaps himself up hastily, glaring at the tiles in front of him like they’ve offended him personally.

“I wasn’t being serious,” Leonid says before stepping out, a towel around his waist, “About abandoning you if you’re too slow, but the girls probably will.”

“I know,” Dick reassures him. He just has to rinse his hair. “Go ahead, I’ll be out in a minute.” Donna would never leave without him anyway.

It’s a strange thing, his relationship with Donna. They’re close in a way he wouldn’t describe as fraternal, but he doesn’t think he’s attracted to her. Wally is Dick’s best friend, but he loves Donna fiercely, and there are parts of him she’s the only one to know. Sometimes she looks at him and he thinks this is it, this is when she leans in and kisses him, and he’s not sure yet about how he would react.

When he comes out, freshly showered and warmly dressed, Bruce is waiting for him in the corridor.

“I know you’ll be going out tonight, but I wanted to congratulate you,” he says as soon as Dick reaches him.

“Dad,” Dick groans, “It’s only the second meet of the season.”

“I know,” Bruce says, his voice weirdly thick with emotion. “But it’s your last year.”

“There’s still _college_ , Jesus, dad.”

“I know,” Bruce says again, looking away, “I know. But I won’t be there every week, and it won’t be—”

He cuts himself short and Dick just stares at him, trying to read between the lines. The whole college issue has never been an easy one. He doesn’t want to push tonight, but he will have to, soon. He bites his bottom lip and inhales deeply, and then plasters a confident smile to his face. He can do this. He can be Dick Wayne, sunshine personified, not a worry in the world.

“It’s okay, dad,” he says softly. “I’m glad you came. I was planning on dropping by before leaving with the others anyway, to say thanks for coming.”

“We’re your family,” Bruce shakes his head, “You don’t thank your family for supporting you.”

“Yes, you do,” Dick rolls his eyes, tugging at his sleeve so they can both start walking towards the exit. He knocks their shoulders together as they make their way outside.

“You were magnificent, Master Richard,” Alfred tells him when he sees him.

“Thanks,” Dick says, swallowing back the happy tears that always come when Alfred compliments him.

Clark ruffles his hair and drags him into a bear hug, and Tim holds up his fist for him to bump. Damian, who was perched on Clark’s shoulders prior to Dick’s appearance and who looks very affronted by the fact he was deposited on the ground, pretends he cannot see his older brother as Dick crouches down to meet his eyes. He sulks for exactly fifteen seconds and then gets bored of it, and he very magnanimously plants a kiss on Dick’s cheek. Laughter bubbles up in Dick’s chest, and he pokes his little brother on the nose. Damian grimaces and sticks out his tongue, but he also fits his small hand on top of Dick’s and grips him tightly for a full minute.

Getting back up, Dick looks around for Jason and finds him a few steps behind, leaning back against one of the cars they took to come here. He’s giving them space, Dick realizes. He’s letting them be a family.

His first reflex is to tell Jason he’s being an absolute idiot and ask him to join them, but something instinctive holds him back. Instead he silently signals Bruce and jogs unhurriedly to Jason.

“You were good,” Jason says when Dick stops in front of him. “I mean, I know jackshit about gymnastics, but it was impressive.”

“I was okay,” Dick says, but he can’t help but grin. “Listen,” he starts, and then he’s not exactly sure of how to continue. He settles on nonchalant, open. Jason scares away easily. “The whole team is going to Denny’s for dinner, it’s a tradition. Some of the girls are bringing their boyfriends and two of my friends are tagging along, you want to come?”

Jason’s easy smile drops for a millisecond, but Dick was already paying close attention so it’s just long enough for him to notice. “I’m kind of beat,” he says. “I think I’m just going to go back with your folks, if that’s okay.”

“They’re your folks too,” Dick retorts automatically.

“Sure.”

“And yes, of course it’s okay. I just thought I’d offer.”

Jason snickers at that. “That’s so thoughtful of you,” he mocks.

“Thoughtful is my middle name, asshat,” he pushes Jason teasingly. Jason pretends to fall over and Dick chuckles, affection settling low in his belly. It’s hard to look at this boy and not feel fond. “Okay,” he says, loud enough for everyone to hear, “I’m gonna go. See you all tomorrow morning?”

“Don’t drive drunk,” Clark says.

“Jesus,” Dick rolls his eyes, “We’re going for burgers.”

“You’re teenagers,” Bruce smirks. “Burgers could be a code name, for all I know.”

 

It’s a struggle, fitting eleven athletes in a booth, but they make do, even if they have to drag one small table and two chairs and maneuver it around so they’re not completely blocking the way. The people here know them, and they just roll their eyes fondly at the ruckus.

While they’re exploring the menu, as if they’re not all going to order their usual fix of greasy post-meet fast food, Dick looks at his teammates. Bette Kane is sitting next to the window, her elbow on the windowsill. Her wavy blond hair falls gracefully on her shoulders, and her bright red lipstick echoes the color of her dress. She’s technically Dick’s cousin twice removed on Bruce’s side by marriage and adoption and all that, but since she was raised away from Gotham before coming to Gotham Prep for her last two years of high school, they don’t know each other as well as they could. The only cousin Dick knows well is Conner, and that’s more because of his friendship with Tim than anything to do with family, even if the Kents are _big_ on that particular concept.

On Kate’s left, there’s Mia Dearden. Dick wishes he could say they’re close, because they’re a _team_ and because Dick generally likes people and thrives on friendship, but Mia doesn’t do _close_. Her only exceptions are Donna, which comes as a surprise to no one because Donna could probably befriend a rock if she put her heart to it; and unexpectedly, Jedediah Rikane. Mia is currently leaning against him, his arm draped over her shoulders. There’s a betting pool going around about when exactly they’re going to date, but personally Dick believes they’re either already dating or they never will. Jed is an asshole, but he’s also fantastic at gymnastics, so everyone tolerates him. The fact it only takes one look from Mia to calm him down helps, too. The Gotham Prep Robins have always been about precarious equilibrium anyway.

The next two people Dick lets his gaze fall upon bring an immediate smile to his lips. Wally West, track runner extraordinaire, and Megan Morse, frontrunner of the Gotham Prep cheerleading squad. Accessorily, two of his best friends. Wally and Dick met in elementary school years ago and have been inseparable ever since; Megan joined them in middle school and grafted herself to Dick’s small group of friends so organically it feels like he’s known her for much longer. Wally and Megan are the only ones who get along well enough with the Robins to partake in post-meet celebrations, but Dick finds he’s actually content with that. Just imagining Artemis and Jed in the same enclosed space is making him shiver.

Next to the mountain of muscle that is Augustus Freeman, Raquel Ervin looks smaller than she is. Gus is the captain of Gotham Prep’s football team, the Titans, and the personification of the expression _gentle giant_. Raquel, who’s at Gotham Prep on scholarship, is one of the most impressive gymnasts Dick has ever met, and that’s saying something. With her short curly hair always held up by a bandana and her torn jeans, out of uniform Raquel looks more like a street kid than Jason ever did, but by now the Robins know Raquel’s toughness is a necessary front. Even after years in a safe environment, it’s hard to let go of survival mechanisms. Dick would know.

On his side of the table, always at his side, there’s Donna. She’s drumming on his forearm absently with her fingertips, a reassuring touch, grounding him into reality. Dick can’t remember a time he wasn’t friends with Donna. They’ve been competing together since they were seven years old. He’s seen her blossom into a wonderful young woman and a tremendous athlete, and he can’t help but feel pride when he thinks about it, even if the accomplishment is all hers.

“You guys ready?” their waitress asks, pulling Dick out of his daydream rather abruptly.

“I guess,” Donna smiles. “Guys,” she motions to Raquel and Gus, “You go first?”

Dick knows he eats a lot in any circumstance, and it’s even worse after a meet, but listening to Gus or Leonid order at a restaurant is always a trip. Just hearing them ask for so much food is making him slightly dizzy. Leonid, the little shit, smiles innocently as the waitress’ eyes go wider and wider while she scribbles down his order.

“And you, young lady?” she asks Duela, who’s curled up against the window, facing Bette.

“Oh, I’m good,” Duela shakes her head. “Wait, I’ll have a coffee,” she adds hastily. Dick is pretty sure that’s only because Bette just glared at her. “Cream, two sugars.”

Duela Dent is their new recruit. She’s a freshman, tried out for the team in September. Her acrobatics are incredible, but her figure is slimmer than the average gymnast’s, and Dick is constantly worried she’s going to break during practice.

“Duela,” Raquel says, “You probably burned the whole day’s calories just on the parallel bars. Eat a fucking burger.”

“Language,” Dick says almost by rote. Argh, this whole _Teaching Damian Not To Swear_ thing is taking over his life.

“Seriously, Wayne?” Raquel raises an eyebrow sarcastically.

“Sorry,” Dick grins sheepishly, “Keep going.”

“I’m just not hungry,” Duela winces. “I had a protein bar right after the meet, and I think I’m stressed out. Seriously, guys. You’ve seen me munch on stuff before.”

_That’s not how it works_ , Dick wants to say, but he bites his tongue. He lets his mind wander off to Jason, and how on some days he will skip three meals and on some others act like he could devour the whole house. Tim has taken it upon himself to follow him around with snacks. Dick isn’t so sure that’s the right approach, but Jason is generally responding to Tim better than to anyone else save Bruce, so he lets it happen.

When his turn comes, he orders sunny-side eggs with bacon and a double portion of French toast because there’s nothing like breakfast for dinner. When their food arrives the table looks apocalyptic, and Donna insists on taking a picture for her Instagram. She captions it _incoming food-coma_ , and Dick is pretty sure that prediction will come true in the next few hours. He knows he reassured his dads that there wouldn’t be any alcohol, but suddenly he’s craving a beer. If they take their milkshakes to go (because there _will_ be milkshakes, make no mistakes), they could all drive back to Jed’s house and spend the rest of the evening there drinking.

“Oh-oh. I know that face,” Donna frowns, stealing beacon off his plate even if she has some on her cheeseburger. “You’re making _plans_.”

“I just really want a beer,” Dick explains.

“Did someone say beer? I heard the word beer,” Wally perks up, grinning goofily. “Did I tell y’all my uncle is doing this whole micro-brewery thing, lately? His pale ale is the _best_.”

“I wouldn’t trust anything made by a chemistry teacher,” Raquel says around a mouthful of fries. “Especially not Mr. Allen.”

“Hey,” Wally protests, as if he’s been personally insulted, which Dick guesses is semi-true. “That was _Tim’s_ fault. Tell them, Dick. Your genius of a little brother set the lab on fire, it wasn’t Barry’s fault.”

“Don’t call him Barry,” Jed jumps in before Dick can defend his family’s honor. “It’s weird.”

Mia slurps the last of her coke noisily and gestures vaguely with the cup still in her hand. “Why is Gotham Prep so endogamous anyway? I think I know at least one person related to every goddamn teacher in this goddamn school.”

“ _Rich people_ ,” Wally says, deadly serious. “It’s like a club, or something. Everyone knows everyone.”

“You drive a BMW,” Mia says coolly.

“It was a _gift_ ,” Wally croaks.

Mia’s eyebrows rise up so high it looks for a second like they’re going to meet her hairline. “How exactly does that make it better?”

“Are we seriously having this debate again?” Leonid asks mournfully.

“Your father owns like, half of Moscow,” Mia makes a face. “You have, like, zero right to complain.”

“I’d like to bring this conversation back to beer,” Dick says in a small voice.

“Buy me one,” Mia grins wolfishly, “Then we can talk.”

Dick has a strange relationship with money. He didn’t have the time to grow old enough in the circus to grasp the concept of poverty, but he knows the only reason he’s never known hunger lies in his parents’ death. It’s an odd guilt to carry.

“I’ll buy you an entire six-pack,” he mumbles.

In the end, Bette turns in early because she can barely keep her eyes open from exhaustion, and Duela’s father picks her up because apparently fifteen year olds these days have _curfews_. Gus and Raquel drive away on Gus’ motorcycle, and the rest of them make their way to the parking lot to say their goodbyes. Jed climbs up on the hood of his pickup truck and lights up a joint he passes to Mia after he takes the first hit. There’s a faint breeze, cold enough to make them all shiver but not to warrant any coat. Donna huddles closer to Dick, bumps their shoulders together and leans on him.

“I have to drive Megs back home,” Wally announces, checking his watch. “Len, I know you came with these two losers,” he motions to Jed and Mia, “You want to hitch a ride with us?” Jed flips him the bird.

Leonid shakes his head no. “I’m good.”

“Okay,” Wally shrugs. “Bro,” he puts his hands up for Dick to shake, and Dick drags him in for one-armed hug.

“Bro,” he says.

“You were all so great tonight,” Megan smiles. “Congrats again. See you all on Monday?”

What’s left of Dick’s team grunts a vague confirmation, but like always, they all know that’s not happening. Outside of the weird bubble of competition nights, they all like to keep to themselves.

“Do you want to spend the night at mine?” Donna asks him once Wally and Megan have left, and Jed wolf-whistles like the jerk he is. Donna rolls her eyes.

“That’s tempting,” Dick says. He steals the blunt from Mia’s fingers, eliciting only an elusive objection. Inhale, exhale. He usually avoids weed, because it never cohabits well with his medication, but right now he still feels a little high on endorphins and his body is tired in a good way, and he wants the soft ease that comes with smoking. “I think I’m gonna head home, though,” he finishes, passing the joint back to Mia.

“Hey,” Donna snaps her fingers. “I haven’t had any yet.”

“Relax, princess,” Mia snorts, but she gives it to her.

Donna blows her smoke in Dick’s face, beaming up at him like she’s the sun.

“I’m driving,” Leonid asserts when Jed fishes his keys from his bag.

“Whatever,” Jed groans, but he renounces the keys and climbs obediently on the passenger side. “See you on Monday, jackasses,” he fake-salutes them. She would be a lot more comfortable in the back, but Mia doesn’t even consider it and gets in next to him.

Donna gestures towards her Mini Cooper. “Race you to the highway?”

Dick points at his Jeep dubiously. “Four-wheel drive, Donna. Four-wheel drive.” It’s almost one in the morning and the streets are dead. Up in the sky, the moon is a perfect crescent, translucent and white in the hungry darkness.

“Fucking watch me,” she shakes her finger at him, all faux-menacing.

“Sure,” he nods. “Don’t get yourself killed.”

80 miles per hour, all windows down. The flash of red that is Donna’s car, perpetually passing him and then getting passed by him. The harshness of the night against his skin, absolute focus on the road unraveling before him.

It’s almost as good; almost as freeing as punching someone until all you see is blood.

Dick wishes he didn’t have the means to make this comparison, but he does now, and it means knowing things about his own self he never wanted to know.

 

\--

 

He’s woken up by screams. His first thought, frantic and absurd, is _Shit, dad_. A montage of horrors flashes before his eyes, part-memories, part-imagination. Bruce lying in a pool of his own blood. Bruce in the bathtub, blood on his wrists, blood on the white tiles. Red everywhere. Death, death, death.

The voice is too young, too raw to be his father’s. And it’s coming from too close to be Tim’s. _Jason_ , Dick realizes, now fully awake. Jason, who’s just a room away. He crosses their shared bathroom and slowly pushes the door to Jason’s room open.

Jason is thrashing in his bed, screaming himself hoarse, eyes still shut. Dick sighs, because he recognizes this with probably more facility than he should. Night terrors. There’s no use in trying to wake him up—he won’t. All there is to do is hold him down so he doesn’t hurt himself, and wait it out.

Jason’s arches up on the mattress, his movements violent in ways Dick isn’t prepared for. He was planning on just grabbing him by the forearms, but that won’t be enough. Tired and weary, he mutters _fuck it_ and climbs into the bed. Like in every bedroom in the manor, it’s a king sized one, so space isn’t the issue. He wraps himself over Jason, locks his arms around Jason’s chest and traps Jason’s arms that way, too. The younger boy struggles in his sleep, but Dick holds on tighter. After a while, Jason’s respiration evens out and the sounds stop abruptly, plunging the room in uncomfortable silence. He’s still squirming, but it’s weak. Dick relaxes his grip but doesn’t break the embrace. He’s scared that if he leaves, Jason will just start screaming again.

Bruce used to yell in his sleep too, when the nightmares got too horrible even for him to handle. At the time Dick was too small to be of any real help, but he used to climb into his bed all the same, glue himself to Bruce’s back and wait for his heartbeat to slow down. There was always fear in Bruce’s rasping pleas, but it never sounded like Jason did when Dick entered the room earlier.

Jason’s body is warm, and he’s roughly the same size as Dick, probably even bulkier on the shoulders area. It’s easy to fall asleep curled up against him, rocked by the now steady rhythm of his breathing. Before he knows it, Dick is dreaming again.

 

\--

 

Jason opens his eyes and immediately knows something isn’t right. There is someone in his bed. He’s being pinned to the mattress by a body, and there’s an arm thrown over his chest. Panic starts bubbling up in his throat, his mind racing to all the possibilities. All he remembers is going to sleep last night, alone, at the manor.

He untangles himself from the stranger’s grip and rolls over so he can face him.

It’s _Dick_. He’s still asleep, imperturbable. His expression is peaceful, a soft smile on his lips, his hair falling in front of his eyes. He whines weakly when Jason removes himself completely from his hold. Sitting cross-legged on his bed, Jason tries to focus. There is no logical explanation for Dick to be here. The only one he can come up with is that Dick came home too drunk and mistook Jason’s room for his, but Dick doesn’t smell like alcohol.

“Hey,” Jason decides to say, shaking Dick’s shoulder as gently as he can. “Hey, Dick. Dickie. Wake up.”

“Mmhpf,” Dick grumbles.

“Yeah, I know,” Jason can’t help but laugh. “You still have to wake up.”

“Why are you in my bed?” Dick asks, rubbing his eyes.

“I was going to ask you the exact same question. Did you get lost on your way to your room last night?”

Dick frowns. “What? Ah, wait.” He props himself on his elbows. “Do you know you have night terrors?” he asks. And, _ah_. So that’s what it was. Jason can hear in his inflexion that’s he’s trying to sound casual. It’s not working very well, but that might be more because of Jason’s sudden wariness than because of Dick’s shortcomings.

“Yeah,” Jason replies cautiously. “Did I wake you? Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Dick rushes to say.

“Roy used to sleep in my bed,” Jason says, looking away. “At first because we were cold, but then he realized without him I always ended up screaming in my sleep. Sorry,” he says again. “It hadn’t happened in a while, so I thought—I thought I’d be okay on my own.”

“Stop apologizing,” Dick shakes his head.

Jason wants to tell him he can’t help it. There’s always something to be sorry for. There’s always the very distinct possibility he will get punished for something he forgot to feel remorse for. “Thank you,” he ends up saying instead. “I hope I didn’t bother the others. Your parents, they seem tired lately.”

“The walls are insulated,” Dick says. “Makes the soundproofing pretty good, plus dad and Clark sleep on the other end of the corridor. I don’t think you could wake them up from here if you tried.”

“Well, thank you,” Jason repeats. There’s a small voice shrieking inside his head, yelling _stop talking stop talking get away from him_ , but Jason doesn’t know how to do that. Suddenly he wants to be anywhere but at Wayne Manor. He’s never felt this uneasy before, this out of place. Life was shitty, before; but at least he never had to explain anything to Roy or Kori. He remembers Roy telling him _“We’re moving the mattresses close together, okay? We’ll make a big bed that way.”_ Roy never asked Jason what had him so terrified at night, and Jason never asked Roy about the track marks on his arms.

“Don’t mention it.” For a second, Dick looks like he’s about to add something else, and Jason’s worried he’s going to try and have them _talk it out_. But he doesn’t, he just pushes himself up and off the bed. “I’m starving,” he announces, and then motions to the bathroom. “M’gonna get ready and then head down for breakfast, you coming?”

“Sure,” Jason shrugs. “Give me ten minutes.”

When he arrives downstairs freshly showered and dressed, Dick isn’t alone in the kitchen. Sunday’s are Alfred’s days off, so the air is missing the usual elaborate smells of pancakes, eggs, and maple syrup; but Clark is at the stove, a frying pan in one hand. Bruce is sitting at the table with a newspaper open in front of him on the stock market page, and Tim is… Tim has _literally faceplanted on the slice of bread in the plate in front of him_. It’s the funniest thing Jason has ever seen. He points at him and raises an eyebrow, and from where he’s standing next to the refrigerator Dick just chuckles softly.

“Hey,” Jason greets the rest of them, “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Clark shoots back happily. “Omelet? Toast? Both?” Dick calls him an ‘infuriating morning person’, but Jason _is_ one of these infuriating morning people, so he can’t really judge. Bruce, on the other hand, just grunts behind his newspaper. Jason knows by now no one is likely to get an fully-worded answer out of him before he’s chugged down at least one cup of coffee, so he doesn’t take it personally.

“Toast, please,” Jason requests gratefully. Now that he’s smelling the food, he realizes he’s actually really hungry. Dick, who knows him better than what Jason thought and is apparently full of surprises, fishes the goat cheese from the fridge and passes it to him wordlessly. “Is anyone going to wake Tim up?” Jason asks as he’s taking his seat.

“I am,” Bruce says, finally lowering his newspaper. He rolls it up tightly until it looks like a stick, and then pokes Tim with it, eliciting absolutely no reaction. Dick positions himself right behind his brother and lowers his head so he can speak directly into Tim’s ear.

“Timmy,” he says, louder than what is truly necessary, and Bruce rolls his eyes.

“Jesus _fuck_!” Tim yelps, almost jumping out of his chair.

“Language,” Clark and Bruce scold him in one voice.

Dick withdraws hurriedly to not get punched in the nose and starts laughing.

“Y’all are touched in the head,” Jason says, spreading cheese on his toast.

Tim just looks around, a confused expression pasted on his face. There are breadcrumbs on his left cheek, and his hair is spiking in three different directions. It’s kind of adorable. “Did I,” Tim stammers, bringing a hand up to his mouth, “Did I _fall asleep on bread_?”

“Yes,” Dick confirms, absolutely delighted, “And I have _pictures._ ”

“If you put anything on Facebook, I will _murder you_ ,” Tim threatens him.

“Children,” Bruce admonishes calmly. “You all know Alfred gets upset when you get bloodstains on the antiques.”

Behind him, grabbing a mug from the cabinet, Clark chortles.

The rest of the meal passes agreeably, but Jason feels like he’s watching it unfold through a looking glass, or as if it was on screen. He participates to the conversation, informs them about how he’s doing in school, but it’s almost an out of body experience. It doesn’t feel real. None of this feels real, again. And he wants it _so badly_ to be, he wants so badly for it to work out. Only for every time he truly believes he’s found his home at Wayne Manor, there are ten where it’s just like this morning: a study in disassociation, a masterpiece of detachment. It’s like being an explorer on foreign land: he understands, rationally, what’s happening, but it’s like being spoken to in a language he doesn’t speak. He excuses himself when Damian finally joins them, because neither Bruce nor Clark seem to have any plans to leave anytime soon, and that means the whole family is probably just going to hang around the breakfast table for some time, and Jason _can’t do that_.

He took a shower not even an hour ago, but he undresses as soon as he reaches his room and goes and climbs into the bathtub again. He doesn’t fill it with water—that’s a luxury only rich people can afford, and Jason doesn’t kid himself into thinking being here makes him rich—, just stands under the spray for a moment, letting scalding water run down his body. His mind supplies him with images of waking up next to Dick, Dick in his bed, Dick reaching out to him; and it’s so unexpected he physically recoils. His hands are trembling when he turns off the water, and he lets himself slide down until he’s sitting in the tub, knees brought up to his chin, arms around his legs.

Tim is easy to deal with. He’s lonely and young, but he’s also brilliant, and Jason likes him. No matter how perceptive he can be, he just doesn’t have the experience to understand Jason’s darkness, and that means they can be friends. There’s no danger in letting Tim in.

There’s no danger in letting Bruce in either, to a certain extent, for the exact opposite reason. Bruce has the eyes of someone who’s seen too much, and Jason knows the man had him figured out after just five minutes of talking to him. Bruce _knows_ and he took him in anyway, and he came back for him. Jason still doesn’t believe the Waynes will be his last foster home, but for as long as he’s allowed, he’ll take whatever Bruce has to offer. It’s probably dumb, it’s certainly naïve, and he knows where it’s coming from—his own useless father is in prison, has been in prison for so long Jason isn’t quite sure what he looks like anymore.

But Dick… Jason doesn’t know how to read Dick. It’s been a month and a half now, almost two months if he counts the ten days he spent at the manor the first time he was there, and he doesn’t know what to make of Richard Wayne. He’s a reassuring presence in the background of Jason’s high school experience. He’s the champion of the family. He’s that goofy popular kid that everyone likes. He’s the boy who bloodied his fists on a man who tried to gut Jason. Reconciling all theses facets seems like a herculean task, and the answer to the _Who the hell is Dick Wayne?_ question keeps slipping between his fingers like sand.

And Jason can’t afford to let someone like this see who he really is. Because Dick _cares_ , but he does so in treacherous ways. Sometimes Jason catches him staring, like maybe if he looks long enough at Jason, he will find a solution to every problem in the universe. He keeps inviting him to things, keeps asking questions, keeps prodding. If Jason lets his guard down, like he almost did this morning, Dick will slip into the cracks and settle there, like an illness. Jason already sees too much of Roy in the way Dick laughs sometimes, and he knows himself.

If he opens his doors to Richard Wayne, he will love him. And then when he inevitably has to leave, a part of him will have to stay at Wayne Manor, and Jason doesn’t have any spare parts left to give.

 

\--

 

“Things are good,” Kori says for the third time in fifteen minutes, which is how Jason knows things are not good.

“Kori,” he sighs tiredly. “Kori, you don’t know how to lie to me. Do I need to come get you?”

“ _No_ ,” she hisses. He imagines her on the other side of the phone, the face she makes when she feels affronted, scrunching up her nose, her mouth a thin pink line. Her absence is like a physical ache. “Things _are_ good, that wasn’t a lie.”

“Then?” Jason probes patiently.

“I miss him,” she admits, and it sounds strangled like she didn’t want to let it out but couldn’t help herself. “I miss him so much, I miss him more than I miss you, does that make me a terrible person?”

Jason shakes his head and then remembers she cannot see him. “No,” he says. “No, that just makes you human.”

He doesn’t say _me too me too me too I know what being in love with him feels like._

“It’s going to be Thanksgiving soon,” she sniffs, and fuck, he hates it when she cries. “Jay, he’s going to spend Thanksgiving alone.”

He doesn’t know why they’re both refusing to say Roy’s name, or maybe he does. They should know by now not naming things never makes them less tangible.

“He won’t be alone,” Jason tells her gently, but that doesn’t soothe the sour burn of the emptiness he’s feeling. There are no actions without consequences, and when Jason decided to make these two people his whole world, he set himself up for this. “I’m sure they’re doing something for Thanksgiving. It’s rehab, not jail. I mean, even in juvie, we had that disgusting turkey thing—”

“I love you,” she cuts him off. “Do you know that?”

“I do,” he replies. He never knew how to lie to her either. This isn’t a lie. This is probably his only certainty. He doesn’t say it back, but he doesn’t need to. He has scars that prove it, and she’s seen all of them. “When he gets out,” he continues instead, “I’ll have my license. We can steal a car, drive up to Canada. He has cousins near the border, I could find a job there for the summer. He’ll almost be eighteen, he’ll buy us beers and you’ll wear these ridiculous dresses you love. It’ll be good.”

“Yeah?” she whispers into the receiver, and it comes out a little throaty, like she’s actively trying not to tear up.

“Yeah. We can spend a month upstate. We’ll tell your foster parents you’re staying with me here, whatever, we’ll find a way.”

It’s wistful thinking, because none of them knows where they’ll be at the end of the year, but if he gives her a dream to hold on to, then maybe she’ll be okay. Maybe _he’ll_ be okay. He doesn’t know who exactly he’s trying to reassure here.

“Okay,” she says, her voice horribly small. He doesn’t think anyone can understand the way he loves her. She fits against him like they were made in the same factory, and he knows all her rugged edges. She has put cold hands on his wounds and she has held him in the night. Sometimes, he thinks he was born the third angle of a triangle, and he doesn’t know how to be his own geometrical shape now that he has to.

 

\--

 

Clark is kissing his way up Bruce’s spine when Bruce says, “I think we’re going to lose Damian.”

He freezes but doesn’t let go of Bruce, just brings him even closer. He lets his forehead drop against his lover’s shoulder blades, takes a deep breath.

“You think?”

“I know,” Bruce admits.

Clark presses his lips one last time to Bruce’s skin and then unhooks his arm from around his chest so Bruce can roll around to face him. His ice-blue eyes hold a storm in the heart of his irises. Clark brings his hand up and traces the outline of Bruce’s mouth with his fingertips.

“Is this your paranoia speaking?”

“No,” Bruce says, grave. “It’s my lawyers.” He leans into the touch, closes his eyes furtively. The way he seeks out tenderness instinctively never fails to make Clark ache, right there, between two ribs.

“You still don’t want to negotiate? She could stand to see him more, she’s his mother. The distance would suck, but that’s always better than seeing our son once a year, or worse.”

“You don’t negotiate with the Al Ghuls,” Bruce tenses. “This—what we’ve been doing up to now? That’s the closest we will ever get to _negotiations_. Talia isn’t behind this. Believe it or not, she used to be in love with me.”

“Yes,” Clark deadpans, “I find that extremely unlikely. What kind of fool would go and fall in love with _you_.”

Bruce glares at him. “You’re not cute.”

“I’m very cute,” Clark protests. “I don’t see how that’s relevant, though. A lot of people used to be in love with you, B. That has never prevented anyone from trying to take things from you before.”

“She knows me. We have our differences, but she knows, rationally, that the arrangement we have is better for Damian. That’s why she let it happen all these years.” His legs tangle with Clark’s under the sheets. He’s always cold, but Clark’s had years of practice, and it takes more than freezing limbs to scare him away.

“So you’re saying Ra’s is the person we’re really fighting.”

“Yes,” Bruce replies simply. “And we’re going to lose.”

“You seem awfully calm,” Clark remarks. Personally, he’s freaking out, but he has been freaking out for months now. The fact Bruce is so composed about it, weirdly, is helping. Clark has been readying himself for weeks now for the inevitable breakdown, but it doesn’t look like it’s going to happen anytime soon, which is a pleasant surprise.

“That’s because we’re not actually going to lose,” Bruce clarifies.

Clark frowns. “I thought you said—?”

“My lawyers have given up. That’s all I said.” He props himself on one elbow, looks Clark in the eye intently. “He’s my son,” he says, as if he’s trying really hard to make Clark understand something vital. “I’m going to do anything it takes. _Anything_.”

“He’s my son too,” Clark reminds him softly. _Anything_. It rings hollowly in Clark’s head, bringing a myriad of long-lost memories with it. Flashes from another age, from a time when the manor was just an empty house and Bruce and Clark were still pretending to be strangers to each other. _Anything_ , Bruce said.

“I’m telling you this,” Bruce begins, “Because you’re my partner. And because he _is_ your child too, and I don’t want you to worry. Do you trust me?”

“You know I do,” Clark says. “You know I do, with my life.”

“Come here,” Bruce says, curling a hand around Clark’s nape. He kisses Clark possessively, with a fierceness that contrasts with the setting. The curtains are pulled down and there are stray rays of sunlight filtering in, and they’ve been speaking in hushed whispers. “If anything were to happen to me…” Bruce says, voice hoarse, when they break apart.

“Bruce,” Clark warns.

“If anything were to happen to me,” he insists, imperturbable. “You are their father too. I’m not hiding anything from you, do you understand? I need you not to know some things, because they cannot lose us both. I’m not sending Damian back to this man.”

_Anything_.

“I understand,” Clark says.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much. you make all this worth it.

Kori lets her eyes roam her surroundings, awe in the way her mouth goes a little slack as she takes in the luxury and lavishness of the interior.

“I know we were here for a night, but I didn’t have time—I didn’t have time to look,” she says, her fingertips following the wooden curve of an antique armchair.

“Yeah,” Jason chuckles softly, “It really is something, isn’t it?”

Ace trots up to them from the other side of the room, alerted by their voices, and he first stares at Kori cautiously, panting slightly with his tongue sideways out of his mouth. She crouches instantly to pet him, and he barks happily and puts his paws on her knees.

“Ah, I’ve always wanted a dog. You’re beautiful,” she smiles, scratching him behind the ears. “Remember that family I was telling you about?” she asks Jason. “The one before I got back to my sister for a while?” Jason nods. “They had a German Shepherd, she was so big she could literally cover me. I mean, I was way smaller than I am now, but still. I’ve wanted a big dog ever since.”

“We can get a dog when we move in together,” Jason offers, but it sounds like a lie and he hates it. Lately it’s been hard to remember that they used to have plans for a future together, just the three of them. Drifting apart doesn’t mean loving Kori less, and the fact he hasn’t heard Roy’s voice in a month doesn’t soften the constant ache of missing him, but it does make the prospect of building his adult life with them seem blurry, uncertain. Jason wonders if this is what growing up feels like.

“That would be nice,” Kori beams at him, and he immediately pushes his dark thoughts as far back as he can. She gets up but doesn’t stop touching the dog, as if she can’t help herself. Ace is delighted, and he sits close to her leg and stays there silently.

Jason gestures vaguely to the living room around them. “So, that’s pretty much it for the tour. You still have a couple of hours before you have to go back, right? What do you wanna do? We can stay here, go up to my room or like, I don’t know. Bruce got me a bike, we could go somewhere.”

“I just want to spend time with you,” Kori says.

He doesn’t remember ever feeling so awkward in her presence. Maybe it’s the fact they’re living in two very different worlds now, or maybe it’s that they’re not trapped in the franticness of survival anymore. It terrifies him, to think that maybe the most powerful love and sense of belonging he’s ever felt was only born of need and circumstances.

 _Maybe neither of you knows how to coexist without him_ , a vicious voice in the back of his head says. He shuts it up forcefully.

“Come upstairs with me,” he tells her.

 

\--

 

Jason’s room looks a lot like him. At first it appears bland, too tidy and generic to make any lasting impression. But once you know where to look, it’s actually very informative on its owner. The bed is made with almost military precision, and there are no clothes outside the closet except for his beloved and well-worn brown leather jacket sitting on the back of a chair. On the desk at the corner of the room, Kori can see a pile of old books as well as notebooks and pens, all arranged gracefully, like in an Ikea catalog. There are paintings on the walls but she knows these were already there, and the fact Jason hasn’t asked to replace them with something more _Jason_ is very telling, too.

“It’s very… minimalist,” she says at last.

“You hate it,” Jason frowns.

She thinks of her room in her new foster home, already cluttered with her things; of the warm pink and orange tones of the wallpaper and of how her foster mother took her to Bed Bath & Beyond to pick three different bedding sets and a fluffy bathrobe. “It’s very you,” she says. “I kind of want to tie you down to a chair so you can let me redecorate, but it’s not _my_ space.”

“That’s… surprisingly kinky of you, Miss Anders. I’m baffled.”

“Shut up,” she blushes, throwing herself on the bed. It’s really nice, soft but not _too_ soft. “You still haven’t told me what they’re like.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Jason says, but he looks uneasy. “They’re a family like any other. I mean, the money thing is weird, but you get used to it.”

“But they’re nice. They are, right? They came back for you, and they helped me and Roy.”

“They’re good people,” Jason says.

She understands his reticence. It doesn’t work that way, for her; she still has enough hope and room in her to accept goodness immediately—or maybe it’s that she’s starved for it, enough to take it with no further questions. But she understands, why Jason is so afraid to admit these people care for him. Where they come from, faith is a commodity. If Jason doesn’t believe in the Waynes, at least he won’t have to lose faith he didn’t put in them in the first place when things inevitably tumble down.

Jason takes a laptop out of his bag and settles it on the bed. It’s one of the latest MacBook models, she notices. When he catches her staring, he grimaces.

“I told Bruce I didn’t need the newest model. He bought it anyway.”

“That’s nice of him,” she says cautiously.

“No,” Jason shakes his head. “I _told_ him, and he didn’t listen. Said they didn’t sell the older ones anymore, as if he couldn’t have gotten me a used one.”

“He did listen to you about the phone,” she points out.

“I guess.”

“And, well, I’m glad you have this computer. You’re going to a private school. Imagine having an old one with all these rich kids around.”

“I don’t care,” Jason says pointedly. “You of all people should know—”

“What,” she cuts him off abruptly, “That you hate owing anything to anyone? Guess what, Jay, they’re your foster family. Taking care of you is their job.”

He takes a step back, hurt in his blue-green irises.

“I don’t,” he starts, chokes on it a little. “You know why I’m like this.” When she doesn’t reply, he sighs, switches on his computer. “I thought we could watch an episode of that show you like.”

“You’re going to have to be more precise,” she smiles. There’s no use in pushing right now, he’ll just close off. “I like, like, seventy shows, probably.”

“The one with the lawyers.”

She grins. “Suits? Cool, come sit next to me. You’ve missed, like, a month worth of episodes.”

They huddle close together, comfortably seated against the mountain of pillows Jason has in his bed for some reason.

“Look at this,” he mutters, clicking on the Safari icon, “I’m a person with a Netflix account, now.”

They’re on the middle of their second episode when Kori’s stomach growls so loud Jason pauses the video to just look at her for a full minute. He decides they have to get a snack immediately, and all Kori can do is follow him down to the kitchen obediently. He’s always been incredibly insistent about her eating correctly, and even now that they’re both getting all the food they need, she guesses this is a habit that won’t go away easily.

One of his foster brothers is already in the room when they enter the kitchen. She can’t remember the boy’s name, but she knows he’s the one in Jason’s class, which makes him a year and a half younger than her. He has soft-looking black hair long enough that the tips touch his shoulders, framing a kind face and two of the bluest eyes she has ever seen. They’re dark and wide, the latter probably accentuated by the fact he’s sporting bags under them like he hasn’t slept in a week.

“Hey guys,” he greets them.

“You remember Kori?” Jason asks.

“Yeah, I do,” he nods. “I’m Tim, I don’t know if we were ever introduced?”

“It’s nice to meet you,” she says carefully. He’s observing her like most boys his age do, with an interest he can’t seem to hide mixed with awkward shyness. It used to make her feel important; now it just makes her sick. She knows it’s not his fault, and he’s probably very nice, but she can’t help by shiver and move a little closer to Jason. If Tim notices, he pretends he hasn’t.

“What’s there to eat?” Jason prompts him, looking through the fridge.

“We’re out of cereal,” Tim says. “I made PB&J for myself earlier, so there’s that. I’m sure if you call Alfred, he’ll make crepes or something.”

“I’m not going to call Alfred because I wanted a _snack_ ,” Jason replies, a little horrified, and that’s when Kori really realizes these people _truly are rich_. To an extent where even Jason, who has been _living with them_ , still cannot understand them.

“Jason,” Tim frowns, “I realize you’re not used to it—” and oh, that’s terrible, Jason is going to take that so _badly_ , “—but this is Alfred’s _job_.”

“I don’t—” Jason starts, but Tim keeps going.

“You’re not insulting him by asking him to do things for you. Actually, it’s probably the opposite.”

Kori doesn’t really know what to do with herself. She’s still firmly pressed to her best friend’s side, and she can feel him almost _vibrating_ with controlled anger against her. Moving her hand to the small of his back, she rubs soothing motions on Jason’s shirt. The tension in his muscles eases up a little, but not much.

“You don’t understand,” he says finally, voice clipped.

“You’re right,” Tim says, “I don’t. But I’m trying to.” He shoots a worried glance to Kori, probably weighing how much he can say in front of her. She glares right back, defensive. “Jason,” he sighs, “We only want to help you.”

“Don’t,” Jason snaps back angrily. “You’re supposed to be a roof over my head, nothing more.”

And then he’s moving, walking away. Tim stays where he is, looking all kinds of stunned. _Yeah_ , Kori thinks bitterly, _welcome to the Jason Todd Show_.

 

\--

 

Bruce has just gotten home when he hears them argue. It’s Tim’s voice he notices first, probably because he’s accustomed to looking for it absently, always making sure his boy is alright.

 _“You’re not insulting him by asking him to do things for you,”_ Tim is saying, sounding exasperated but also strangely concerned. It only takes a few second for Bruce to figure out what he’s talking about, and to whom. He remembers their first breakfast with Jason at the manor clear as day—how Jason had recoiled when Bruce had suggested they pick up new clothes for him, how he kept trying to get things from the kitchen himself even after Alfred explicitly ordered him to sit down.

As if on cue, Alfred appears next to him. “Master Bruce, welcome home.”

“Thank you, Alfred,” Bruce smiles, handing him his coat. “Is everyone alright?”

“Master Clark has asked me to inform you he will be late for dinner,” Alfred says, his sardonic expression clear on what he thinks of being a homing pigeon. “And Master Richard has disappeared Lord knows where again.”

“Great,” Bruce huffs. He settles his briefcase on the console and makes his way to the kitchen, because he wants a glass of water and _absolutely not_ because he’s intending to spy on his kids.

 _“We only want to help you,”_ Tim is telling Jason now. God, that _boy_. Sometimes Tim sounds so much like Clark it’s almost troubling. For all of his qualms about still being a Drake and what calling them his parents would entail, Tim sure as hell acts like a Wayne most of the time. Probably more than Dick. Definitely more than Damian, and isn’t that just the most ironic thing.

 _“Don’t,”_ Jason spits out right as Bruce reaches the door. _“You’re supposed to be a roof over my head, nothing more.”_

And, oh. Oh. It wasn’t supposed to hurt this much, Bruce notes almost absently. What an idiot he has been. What a fool.

The door opens rather abruptly and Jason almost walks into him. He freezes when he recognizes him, face turning ashen.

“Bruce,” he says, sounding very small. “You heard that.”

It’s not a question. Behind him, the young girl they rescued from Jason’s previous home looks slightly horrified.

“I did,” Bruce replies blankly.

“Dad,” Tim says, joining them around the door. None of them dares to move. “Dad, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Bruce says automatically, and Jason _recoils_ at that. _Fuck_ , Bruce only meant—Bruce only meant Tim didn’t have to apologize. “Jason,” he says, “Can I have a word?”

Jason _shakes_ , a full-body shiver. He takes a step back, bumps into his friend. She pushes him gently towards Bruce.

“Sure,” the boy says finally. The disparity between his tone and the evident terror in every breath he takes would be funny if it didn’t make Bruce want to throw up with anger at the world. _You’re not in trouble_ , he wants to say, but all he’s uttered so far has been a mistake.

He walks Jason to his office on the first floor, the one he uses for meetings when he holds them at Wayne Manor. Jason has been in this room once before, when Bruce and Clark explained to him how life was going to be from now on _._

 _We want you to feel comfortable and safe here_ , Clark had told him earnestly.

“Sit,” Bruce tells him when Jason just stands there, looking a little lost. He takes a seat on the other side of the desk, and Bruce settles on his leather armchair. “Jason…” he begins.

“I’m sorry,” Jason says hastily. “I’m really sorry, I was just upset, I didn’t mean it. I appreciate how much you have done for me, I know—”

“Stop,” Bruce says. Jason shuts up instantly. “You don’t have to apologize for voicing something that upsets you,” he continues when he’s sure the boy is breathing properly and listening to him. “Not right now, not ever. Not in this house.”

“But…” Jason says, but then he closes his mouth, bites down on his bottom lip forcibly.

“Yes?” Bruce asks. When he’s met only with silence, he changes tactics. “Jason, are you afraid of me?”

“No,” Jason replies immediately, but Bruce is a liar, he knows how to spot a lie.

“Jason.”

Jason looks away, evidently wanting to be anywhere but where he is right now. His hand is fisted in the hem of his shirt, slightly trembling.

“ _Yes_ ,” he whispers.

“Have I ever given you a reason to be afraid of me? This isn’t a trick question,” he adds when Jason shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “Maybe I have, I don’t know. If I _have_ , I want to know.”

After a long silence, Jason says, “Yes.”

 _You asked him_ , Bruce chastises himself. _You can’t let him know it affects you or he’s never going to be honest with you again._ But God, if he could just walk away for a minute and scream.

“Alright,” he says instead, and even to his own ears his voice sounds emotionless and empty.

“It’s not,” Jason starts, tripping over his words. “It’s not you. Not really.”

“You don’t have to justify yourself.”

 _You’re an idiot, you’re an idiot, you started this conversation and now you cannot deal with it_.

“I kind of do,” Jason laughs bitterly. “I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Tell me what I need to stop doing.”

“Ha,” Jason snorts. “Being an adult? Having the physical capacity of overpowering me? _Shit_ ,” he swears, realizing what he has just given up. “Shit, _shit_ , forget I said that, I didn’t mean to say that.”

“Jason,” Bruce says softly. He wants to reach out so badly. Maybe all Jason needs is to be held, safe, _at home_.

Maybe all Jason needs is to be left the fuck alone, too, so Bruce doesn’t budge.

“Shit,” Jason says again. His hands are gripping the arms of his chair, so strongly his knuckles are whitening.

Bruce looks at him and lets the veil of his sadness wrap around both of them. It is immense. It is suffocating.

“I would never, _ever_ hurt you. Do you understand that? Do you at least know that on some rational level?”

“No,” Jason shakes his head. “No, I’m sorry. _Shit._ ”

The desk between them feels like an ocean. Bruce doesn’t know how to cross it, how to navigate the waters of Jason’s fragile trust.

“I can make you a promise,” he tells him instead. “When I signed these papers, I made a choice. I made you my responsibility. No harm will come to you while you’re under my roof. No one will ever—” God, he can’t cry _now_ , this isn’t about _him_ , “No one will ever touch you again without your permission, Jason. I’m going to make sure of that.”

“Bruce,” Jason rasps, tears visible at the corner of his eyes.

“You can be afraid of me,” Bruce keeps talking, because if he stops now they will both break down and he is a parent. He is a father. There are things he cannot allow to happen. “You can be afraid of me, it’s okay. But you don’t have to. And I will do all that is in my power so that you don’t have to be afraid of anyone.”

 

\--

 

“Bruce,” he says, but what he really wants to say is _dad dad dad please_. What he really wants is to crumble and fall and for someone to catch him. His bones ache with the need to be held up, to be embraced.

And this is too much, and this is too little.

“Bruce,” he says, and then he cannot breathe.

 

\--

 

“I messed up, didn’t I?”

Kori looks at him and blinks, like she didn’t understand the question. Tim knows she did, so he doesn’t repeat himself, just lets her find it in her to stop being mad on Jason’s behalf for one damn second.

“Yes,” she says finally. Rearranging her jacket, she looks at the door. “Jay was supposed to bring me home.” She’s biting her lip, nervous.

“Alfred will drive you. Or if the idea of our butler giving you a lift is too offensive to even consider, I’m sure my father will be done with Jason soon.”

He regrets the aggressiveness of his tone as soon as the words have passed his lips, but it’s already too late. Kori is staring at him with disgust barely disguised on her features.

“You rich brats really are all the same, then,” she huffs coolly. “I’m going to wait for Jay in his room.”

She turns on her heels and disappears upstairs, leaving Tim standing like an idiot in the middle of the kitchen, his PB&J forgotten on the table. He’s not hungry anymore.

Conner picks up immediately, which is more or less weird, because Tim could have sworn he had practice today.

“Am I an insensitive jerk?” he asks, perusing the fridge for some Coke, his cellphone stuck between his ear and his shoulder.

 _“Yes,”_ Conner answers instantly. _“What’s her name? Did she slap you?”_

“I appreciate the honesty,” Tim deadpans. He opens a can and takes a sip directly from it instead of pouring the soda into a glass because he’s a normal teenager, thank you very much. “And I didn’t get slapped. Not physically, at least. There was some metaphorical slapping, I think. It’s all very confusing.”

 _“What did you do?”_ Conner sighs.

Tim remains silent for a moment, thinking. “It involves Jason, kind of,” he says. “I’m not sure it’s my story to tell.”

_“Then why did you call me?”_

Worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, Tim laughs faintly. “I don’t know. I guess I just wanted someone to tell me I’m not an asshole.”

 _“Yeah,”_ Conner chuckles, _“Wrong number for that, buddy.”_

“Do you think about it, sometimes? The money?”

_“What do you mean?”_

“We’re rich. And it’s all… so normal. I hadn’t thought about how it differentiates me from other people in quite a while.”

Conner doesn’t say anything for a long time, and then: _“You’re not an asshole.”_ Tim wants to tell him that’s cute and everything, but it doesn’t answer his question; but his best friend continues. _“Yeah, I think about it. Particularly since you know. It wasn’t always like this for me.”_

“And?”

_“And nothing, Tim. You’re thirteen, what do you want to do? Your dad gives to all these charities. He votes democrat. You’re not a bad person because you have cash.”_

“Okay,” Tim says, but he’s not convinced.

_“Are we still on for tomorrow evening?”_

“Sure.”

 _“Cool_ , _”_ Conner says. It’s not stilted, but it’s a little awkward, and now Tim regrets calling him. Which feels really awful, because Kon is his _best friend_. If Tim starts getting anxiety about _him_ , then there’s really no hope.

“Sorry,” he mutters hurriedly. “See you later.”

He hangs up before Conner can reply.

“Master Timothy?” Alfred’s voice startles him, almost making him jump out of his own skin.

There’s something Tim can’t quite figure out in Alfred’s gaze. Affection and concern, as usual, but not only. He hopes it isn’t disappointment.

“Yes?”

“May I suggest you take a walk by the manor’s west wing?”

Tim frowns, confused. “Dad’s office is right there, and he wanted privacy so he and Jason—oh. Oh, yes, of course.”

Alfred nods, satisfied; and if Tim wasn’t worried about Jason, it would make him happy enough to forget Kori probably thinks he’s an entitled jerk for a second. As it is, he just hurries and crosses the entrance hall, scurries down the long corridor that leads to Bruce’s workspace.

The door to his office is closed and his father is leaning against it when Tim gets there.

“Jason’s inside,” he informs him, voice low. He looks relieved that Tim is there. “He had a panic attack.”

Tim’s eyes widen. “And you left him _alone_?”

Bruce stares at him like he’s stupid. “I stayed with him until he calmed down. He asked for privacy.”

“Can I—?” Tim asks, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the door. Bruce moves away wordlessly, granting him access. He knocks twice and then lets himself in.

The lights are off. Jason is curled up in Bruce’s leather armchair, his knees brought up to his chest.

“Jay?” Tim tries hesitantly, the nickname he heard both Kori and Roy use with such familiarity and ease. “Can I come in?”

“You’re already in,” Jason replies, and his voice sounds raspy and tired.

“I can leave,” Tim starts, already turning away.

“No,” Jason stops him. Tim freezes. “No, stay.”

He closes the door carefully, knowing Bruce will get the hint, and then goes to sit on the floor on the other side of the desk. “I’m sorry,” he whispers finally. “For what I said, in the kitchen.”

“Wasn’t your fault,” Jason mumbles. “I’m sorry too.”

“It’s just—I forget,” Tim explains anyway. “And I know that sounds even shittier, but it’s the truth. I don’t exactly… forget not everyone has it this good, but I do forget that not everyone _gets it_ , and you’d think I’d know better by now, but I don’t. And I’m sorry, okay?”

Jason laughs dryly. “I told you, you’re good.” Tim hears him shift in his chair. “It’s my third in two days,” he says.

Tim doesn’t ask him what he’s talking about.

“Do you know why?”

“Yeah,” Jason says. He doesn’t follow that statement with anything, so Tim figures that’s as much information as he’s going to get.

“You know you can ask for help, right?”

“Yeah, asshat. I do. You ever get tired of sounding like an old man?”

“No,” Tim chuckles. “It got me this far.”

None of them says a word after that, and the silence stretches, but not uncomfortably. Jason’s breathing is still a little labored, and Tim listens to him inhale and exhale, making sure it evens out slowly. It’s peaceful, and weirdly intimate, and for some reason Tim doesn’t want to look at too closely right now, it’s helping _him_ too.

It takes him a while to notice that Jason has fallen asleep. When he does, Tim gets up from the floor, wincing at the flash of discomfort in his coccyx. He gets out of the room and Bruce is still there, waiting, anxious. It’s written all over his face.

“He’s sleeping,” Tim tells him. Bruce’s entire body relaxes, tension easing off his shoulders. There’s a nasty bit of jealousy gnawing at Tim’s side, but he ignores it. “His friend has no means to get back home, I think they were going to bike home.”

“I’m on it,” Bruce nods. “Is Jason—is he on the sofa?”

“No,” Tim shakes his head. “Still in your chair.”

Bruce swears softly under his breath. He takes a few seconds thinking, clearly evaluating different options. “Could you bring him a blanket?” he finally asks Tim. He probably considered carrying Jason to his room. Tim is glad he decided against that.

He’s pretty sure there’s a picture of Bruce Wayne right under the definition of the word _overprotective_.

He covers Jason with a plaid, and Alfred brings them a thermos of bergamot tea and a plate of cranberry cookies on a small silver tray he deposits on the desk.

“Master Jason will be hungry when he wakes up,” he says, but Tim hears the unsaid message. It’s in the two cups on the tray.

 _I’m glad he will not be waking up alone_.

 

\--

 

Jason is already in the bathroom brushing his teeth when Dick goes in to get ready for bed. He probably just got out of the shower—he’s wearing nothing but sweatpants, and his hair is still wet, droplets running down his neck. Placing himself in front of his own washbasin, Dick grabs his toothbrush wordlessly. He’s squeezing toothpaste out of the tube when Jason’s eyes meet his in the mirror, and immediately Jason turns away, embarrassed.

“Did Tim say anything?” he asks finally.

Dick frowns. “No. Was he supposed to?”

Jason just looks away. His hands are shaking, Dick observes. Not a lot, barely enough to be visible—Jason probably hasn’t even noticed himself. Dick wants to ask him if he’s okay, but he knows his question is very likely to be met by glaring and silence, so he doesn’t.  
“You said—” Jason starts, but then he lets his voice trail off. “No, never mind.”

“No,” Dick insists, setting his toothbrush in a glass, “Tell me.”

The strong minty taste of toothpaste is assailing the inside of his mouth, but he wants Jason to start talking before any of them moves, so rinsing will have to wait.

“It’s nothing,” Jason says, now with an edge of aggressiveness to his voice.

“It obviously isn’t _nothing_ ,” Dick rolls his eyes. Then, more softly: “Did something happen with Tim?”

Jason just stares at him for a while, his right hand gripping the marble countertop tightly. Now that Dick’s looking, there’s a scar there he had never paid attention to before; right above Jason’s thumb, continuing up to his wrist, thin and white.

“You said your parents worked in a circus,” Jason says, turning his head a little, like he’s avoiding Dick’s gaze.

“They were trapeze artists, yeah.”

It doesn’t hurt to talk about them, not anymore. It hurts in other ways, and it always will, but at least now he can speak of John and Mary Grayson without the impression that the world is crumbling around him.

“I was just wondering,” Jason says, and it looks like he’s stumbling on his words, and not for the first time since they took him in Dick feels a mixture of rage and desolation. “How you got used, to, you know. Being here.”

“I had nowhere else to go,” Dick says, very simply. “I was in a group home for fifteen days before Bruce found me. It took longer than that to bring me to the manor, and it was long enough for me to realize he was the only person who actually cared.”

“I keep thinking he’s going to send me back,” Jason admits. Strangely, there is no regret on his face after he’s said the words. If anything, he seems… relieved.

“Yeah,” Dick chuckles darkly, “You and me both.”

“You’re his son,” Jason scoffs, disbelieving. “He literally cannot send you anywhere.”

“I don’t think literality has anything to do with it,” Dick shrugs. “It’s been my worst fear since I was six. I still get nightmares where I come home and my key doesn’t fit in the lock. It’s part of the game, I guess. You just learn to live with it. Is that what you talked about with Tim?”

“No,” Jason says, and leaves it at that. He grabs his used towel and hangs it, resets his toiletries in place. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Jason,” Dick calls after him. “You don’t know him like I do.”

Jason stops at the door and turns around slowly to look at him. “And you don’t know _me_. You have no idea what I—where I’ve been. What I’ve done.”

Dick swallows back both his urgent _then tell me_ and his instant defense of his father. Jason doesn’t know any of them well enough to understand.

“You don’t know him like I do,” he chooses to repeat instead, cautiously. “He’s seen worse, I promise.”

Jason shakes his head, almost amused. “No, he hasn’t. Goodnight, Dick.”

 

 

\--

 

“Can we accidentally forget Tim?” Damian asks in Farsi as Clark tries to fit his youngest son’s lunchbox in his small backpack.

“I heard my _name_ , you demonic creature,” Tim yells from the hall.

“It’s not an accident if you plan it in advance, Dami,” Clark explains patiently.

“I’m only saying this for _plausible deniability_ ,” Damian frowns, the last two words in English.

Clark stops fighting with the zipper to look at him sternly. “Have you been reading your father’s files again?”

Damian just looks away, blushing faintly.

“We’re going to be _late_ ,” Tim calls to them.

“We’re already late. Can you stop shouting?” Jason’s voice is tired and grumpy.

With a disgruntled sigh, Clark opens the bag again to take the lunchbox out. “Listen buddy, I’m sorry, I don’t know how Alfred does it.”

“He lets me carry it separately,” Damian says, like Clark is an idiot.

Clark closes his eyes and counts to three, and reminds himself that filicide is illegal and morally wrong. “You couldn’t tell me that before?”

“It was very amusing,” Damian shrugs.

“Seriously,” Tim says again, this time popping in to the kitchen again, “At this point it’s not even worth going anymore. We just missed first period.”

“Young man,” Clark snorts, “If you think you’re getting a day off school that easily, you have a big storm coming.”

He hasn’t had to drive his kids to school in years. Alfred usually took care of it, and then Dick learned how to drive. Only this morning Bruce got called in for an emergency meeting and needed Alfred to drive him and a client around town, and Dick had left earlier for practice, which left Clark with two teenagers and Damian and absolutely no idea how to manage any of it.

“I’m just saying,” Tim says, climbing on a stool, “If we don’t go at all, then I won’t have to go through the humiliation of walking in in the middle of Biology class. It’s not like we’ll be missing anything, Mrs. Moone has been making us repeat the word vagina so we’ll stop giggling every time she talks about reproduction.”

“That’s a compelling argument, but you’re still going to school.”

It’s technically against the law, but Clark lets Damian seat next to him in the car. He’s dropping him off first, which gives them roughly fifteen minutes if there isn’t any traffic on the road, and he intends to use them to talk about how Damian purposefully put everyone late. Only Damian refuses to say a word, and spends his quarter of an hour glaring at the window. He almost leaves the car without saying goodbye, but Clark grabs him by the arm before he can slip out.

“Hey. First of all, wish everyone a good day. Go on,” he insists when Damian just glowers.

“Have a good day,” he mutters finally.

“Good,” Clark smiles. “Now you wait for me, I’m walking you to class.”

After leaving Tim and Jason in front of Gotham Prep, he thinks about going back to the manor. As the Gotham correspondent for the Daily Planet, he mostly works from home; but today he doesn’t feel like returning to an empty house. He sets for Downtown Gotham and plugs his phone into the car system, and then asks Siri to text Bruce.

Bruce calls him almost instantly.

“You’re in a meeting,” Clark points out in lieu of greeting.

“I’m taking a bathroom break,” Bruce says casually. “What did you mean, _just dropped the kids off_? It’s almost ten thirty.”

“Thanks, Sherlock,” Clark rolls his eyes, and then he remembers Bruce can’t see him. “Damian fell back asleep twice, and then he quote-unquote lost his planner, and then he refused to eat, and then we had a lunchbox mishap. It was an eventful morning.”

“Isn’t he a little old for temper tantrums?”

“I don’t know,” Clark deadpans, “He _is_ your son.”

“I was a quiet child,” Bruce chuckles, taking the jab easily, “The anger issues came later.”

The effortlessness with which he alludes to his parents’ murder while still refusing to ever talk about it seriously is incredible. Clark chooses to ignore it, like he almost always does. There are times where he knows he can reach Bruce. Right now is not one of them.

“I’m not excessively worried,” he informs him instead. “But we can talk to him together in the evening. Go back to your work.”

“They’re trying to sell me junk. That reusable plastic bottle thing I was telling you about? Results from the lab came back. Turns out there’s a shit-ton of BPA in there. It would be insulting if it weren’t so absurdly funny. How long do you think I have to keep this up until I can throw them out without breaking decorum?”

“Until you get me something substantial to publish,” Clark tries his luck.

“Mr. Kent,” Bruce fake-gasps. “What about your journalistic integrity?”

“I lost it when I started sleeping with the corporate enemy, remember?”

There had been an article, when Clark had been unveiled as Bruce’s lover. He doesn’t remember the specifics, but he’d been called a sellout a lot. At the time, it had stung. Now Clark knows a lot more than he did then, and these things can’t touch him.

“I’ll see you in the evening,” Bruce says finally. There’s something to his tone, and Clark realizes Bruce didn’t really call him because of how late the kids were. He needed to hear Clark’s voice. He needed to feel grounded.

“I love you,” Clark replies. “Do not punch anyone in the name of the environment.”

“I know,” Bruce says, and Clark drinks in the smile in his voice. “And I’ll try my best.”

Leaving a $120,000 car to valet parking and then going to sit in a Starbucks to write still feels weird after all these years, but it is habit enough that Clark does it without fretting. His current expose is on the renovation of the old harbor and the implication of several Metropolis-based construction companies. It’s a boost to both Gotham and Metropolis’ economy, creating quite a few jobs. It’s the kind of article that Clark loves to write, even if it’s less exciting than pieces that demand more investigation. He always preferred being a bearer of good news.

He’s in the middle of editing his second draft when his cell starts ringing. Surprisingly, the call isn’t from Bruce.

“Ma?”

 _“Sweetie!”_ His mother voice rings happily through the phone. She asks him how he’s been, and he smiles without even realizing he’s doing it. Her Midwestern drawl is like music to his ears.

“Are you guys all set for next week?” he inquires after having updated her on her grandchildren’s lives.

 _“Of course_ , _”_ she reassures him happily. _“Oh, Gosh, we missed y’all like crazy. Your father is probably more excited than I am, he has already packed and everything.”_

“Well, the kids are pretty thrilled themselves,” Clark chuckles.

_“And not you?”_

“Nah,” he teases, and he hears her laugh lightly. “It’s not like I haven’t seen you guys in forever.”

_“Tell Alfred he is forbidden to make dessert.”_

“I think he learned his lesson last time, Ma.”

 _“You say that every year,”_ she huffs, _“And every year we find ourselves with too many darn pies.”_

“Dick eats like two, and we have one more mouth to feed now,” Clark reminds her. “Trust me, we’ll be fine.”

 _“Oh, yes, Jason,_ ” she exclaims softly. _“How’s that poor darling doing?”_

“He’s good,” Clark says. “A little shy and scared to meet you guys, but I know as soon as he sees you, he’ll be alright.”

Bruce has been scared to even _stand_ close to Jason since his last panic attack. Clark is fairly sure that’s not what the boy needs, and he knows his mother will have no such reservations. He’s counting the days until his parents arrive, observing Jason from a relatively safe distance. He hasn’t been acting any differently, but now that Clark’s aware Jason is constantly afraid, it’s quite easy to see. It breaks his heart a little more every day.

_“Of course, sweetheart, don’t you worry about that. Is Kara coming this year?”_

“She said she would try her best, but you know how her schedule is.”

_“Tss. It’s Thanksgiving, Clark. She can spare an evening to spend Thanksgiving with her family.”_

“I’ll call her again, okay?”

She makes him tell her about the rest of his week before he hangs up, and he does so enthusiastically. The warmth of her voice drips through the receiver and into his bones, like liquid sunlight. He hadn’t even noticed the tightness in his chest but now it’s loosening, easing away. There are very few other things that have this effect on him, that taste like safety and smell like steadfastness. The ocean-blue of Bruce’s eyes, Damian’s small hand in his, Dick’s lopsided grin, Tim’s fast babbling.

He thinks of Jason sitting in a corner of the living room, a book open on his knees while Clark is working at the table, nothing but the sound of rustling pages. His mother told him once love is the only truly unlimited resource. The heart is an expandable palace, an infinity of rooms that build themselves.

“You were right,” he tells her out of the blue.

 _“About?”_ she asks, amused.

“Everything.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone asked me about my music inspiration for this verse and i wrote this [long-ass meta](http://fosterverse.tumblr.com/post/142717680520/please-talk-to-me-about-your-whole-music) because apparently i have no chill? so like, if you want to Know More Stuff about these dumb assholes you can read that i guess?
> 
> yesterday i posted a ~smutty~ scene from this chapter that didn't make the final cut because its tone was too out of synch with the rest, and you can read _that_ [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6537517).
> 
> so many plotlines are slowly starting to converge in this chapter, woohoo! 
> 
> ah, yes, so. **let's just issue a blanket trigger warning from now on for reference to sexual abuse of minors?** you'll never see anything graphic, but characters will be talking about it/implying it in this and the following chapters. if you want me to give you a more detailed tw, please do not hesitate to shoot me an ask on the fosterverse blog! x

Jason is smoking in his usual hideout behind the gymnasium when a girl with long dirty-blonde hair wearing a Gotham Prep hoodie comes to sit next to him, pushing herself up onto the low wall. She looks vaguely familiar, but he can’t quite place her.

“You’re Dick’s brother,” she says before Jason gets the chance to open his mouth.

“Foster brother,” he mutters.

“I’m Mia.”

He recognizes her now. She’s on Dick’s team, he saw her compete with him at their last meet.

“Jason,” he introduces himself when she gives him an expectant look.

“Yeah, that’s right, he mentioned you.”

“Do you want anything?” he cuts her off, rather abruptly.

“A cigarette,” she snorts. “Gender equality, too, but I don’t think you can deliver on that.”

“No can do, for both. Buy your own fucking smokes. Aren’t you athlete-types supposed to stay healthy and all that shit?”

“You let me worry about that,” she smiles, wolfish, and then slips her hand under Jason’s jacket to steal his pack from his pocket. He’s so stunned by her boldness he lets her get away with it.

“What the _fuck_.”

She lights up the stick, takes a long drag. At least she has her own lighter, he thinks.

“Didn’t the Waynes pick you up from a street corner? Can’t recognize a pickpocket when you see one?”

“First of all, _fuck_ you.”

“In your dreams, boy.”

There’s an edge to her voice he recognizes but can’t name, a familiarity he can’t quite pinpoint. It’s the accent, maybe. She’s trying hard to hide it but she doesn’t sound anything like most of the rich kids Jason’s been around lately.

“You’re not from here,” he says.

She rolls her eyes. “What a detective.”

Her foot is tapping rhythmically against the ground, _one-two one-two_. The air reeks of aggressiveness and tobacco, and Jason hasn’t felt this good in weeks. Here, behind the fancy buildings, with someone who comes from dirt just like him, he is free.

She holds the cigarette between her teeth to free her hands and ties her hair up into a loose bun, and her sleeve rides up a little. There’s a tattoo on her wrist, and at first Jason is only surprised because the Academy’s rulebook forbids visible ink and piercings; but then he gets a better look at it. The two worlds are in Cyrillic, but no one who grew up in Crime Alley needs to actually speak Russian to recognize Vasily Kosov’s name. Mia notices him staring and glares at him, but she doesn’t hide the tattoo.

“How long?” Jason just asks, because he needs to know. He wishes he could say the question was born of altruistic concern, but the truth is he wants to make sure Mia isn’t sitting next to him because she identified him.

“Long enough.”

“How did you know about me?”

“I didn’t. I only guessed. You just confirmed my suspicions.”

She doesn’t _know_ , then. Not really. Jason allows himself to breathe again.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says eventually. She crushes her cigarette under the sole of her shoe.

“Me neither.” She brings her knees up to her chest, locks her arms around her legs. There’s a faint breeze, cool and soundless, blowing through Jason’s black hair and leaving it ruffled.

“How did you know?” he asks again after a while. “What made you… _guess_?”

She raises an eyebrow sardonically. “I thought you said you didn’t want to talk about it.”

“If I’m being obvious, I want to know.”

“It was just a feeling,” she shrugs. “You’ve been on the streets long enough, you know. You can spot one of your own.”

“I wasn’t—” he starts, but then he stumbles on the words, doesn’t really know what he was trying to say. His cheeks are burning. _Shame_ , he realizes. “I didn’t have a pimp or anything,” he finishes lamely.

“What?” Mia snickers. “You think that makes you better, or something? Newsflash, darling: a hooker’s a hooker.”

“Why did you come out here?” he asks her, his voice a harsh whisper.

She just looks at him. There’s pity in her hazel eyes, and he can’t take it, he has to turn his face away.

“Because I was you, Jason Todd.” Her fingers are now drumming a nervous tune against her shin. She was lying earlier when she pretended she didn’t know his name. “And where I come from, we help each other.”

“I’m not one of your girls,” he grits, jaw clenched.

“No,” she agrees. “You’re not.” She pushes herself up, wipes her palms on her pants. “If you think you can start over, get a brand new shiny life, stop. You’re fooling yourself. There’s no escaping that kind of past. Embrace it.”

“Is that why you’re sporting that tattoo like a war prize?” Jason scoffs.

Her gaze is hard on him. He supposes he earned at least that.

“Everyone here knows we’re scum,” she says, inflexible. “You can either own up to that, or you can keep pretending you’ll be able to fit in one day. If you make the right decision, hit me up.”

He wants to answer that, but there’s a boy waiting in the corner now, his eyes fixed on Mia. She nods at Jason and then turns on her heels, trots to him. He takes off his jacket and puts it on her shoulders, and then they’re taking off, his arm around her waist.

Jason figures it’s his time to clear out too.

 

\--

 

In the car, Jason is too quiet. Dick’s attempts at conversation are all very short-lived, so in the end he just turns on the radio and concentrates on the road. Alfred picked up Tim and Damian earlier, but lately Jason has been insisting that he needs more time at the school library to finish his homework in the evenings, and he’s been catching rides home with Dick after practice. Dick suspects that he’s only doing it to keep him company on their way back—not that Jason would ever admit to that. Currently Jason isn’t being the finest example of _company_ anyway, and Dick is really trying to be a considerate foster brother and not nag, but he’s exhausted and on the edge and this whole silent treatment thing is grating on his nerves. It’s not the first time it’s happened this week either; Jason didn’t talk to him for a whole morning after their little talk in the bathroom. Which was totally unfair, because Dick didn’t even initiate that particular exchange.

“You know,” he starts, eyes still fixed on the road ahead, “You didn’t have to wait for me if you’ve decided you can’t stand me today.”

Jason huffs, disbelieving. “Who said I can’t stand you?”

“You’ve been glaring at me the whole time you’ve been in my car, and you haven’t said a single word since you’ve climbed in.”

“I’m just tired,” Jason says, looking away. “Didn’t feel like talking.”

“Well, I’m tired too, and I still asked you how your day was,” Dick retorts, and it comes out a little more aggressive than intended. “Sorry,” he mutters immediately.

“My day was fine,” Jason responds, glowering. He’s actively angry, now. It’s like someone suddenly reignited the fire; his initial apathy is gone and his eyes are sparkling with animosity. Dick remembers the first time he witnessed that transformation, that night they drove to Jason’s old house with Tim. He knows what it means, now. Jason is _afraid_. “I particularly liked the part where one of your teammates ambushed me to ask me about my past.”

Dick gapes, dumbfounded. “What?”

“Did you send her to talk to me? What, did you think that because we both grew up poor as shit we would become instant friends?”

“Jason,” Dick stammers, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

They’re almost home. He can see the gates at the end of the pathway, the intricate design of the black metallic W in their center. He slows down a little, turns to look at Jason.

The prominent vein in his throat is jumping, and the line of his shoulders is tense like a wire. His right hand is gripping the car door, like maybe he’s going to have to throw himself out at any moment.

“Jay,” Dick says, softly. “I didn’t send anyone to ask you anything. I’m not going to deny there’s a myriad of things I would like to learn about you, but not like that. I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t go at it like that.”

“I’m sorry,” Jason says once Dick has parked. “I was—I’m sorry.”

And then he’s gone, running to the house. Dick just watches him push the front door and disappear inside, stays on the lawn dumbly with his bag in one hand and his keys in the other.

 

Bruce is working in the living room when Dick enters the manor, sitting at Clark’s usual spot with a bunch of papers spread in front of him on the table and his reading glasses on his nose.

“Hey,” he greets his father, shrugging off his jacket to place it on a chair before taking a seat next to him. “Do you have a minute?”

“Uh?” Bruce jerks up, clearly still absorbed in his reading. “Ah, yes, of course. Are you—?”

“I’m fine,” Dick reassures him hastily. “Everything’s fine, I just wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Go ahead. This can wait,” he points at the stack of files.

“I’m worried about Jason.”

Bruce’s eyes darken, and he takes off his glasses, rubs the bridge of his nose wearily. “Me too.”

“Can I ask you a question? You said… When you first decided to foster him, you said Harley got him placed with us.”

“Yes. She got his charges dropped, prevented him from landing in juvie.”

“I always assumed it had to do with Tony. I mean, I knew things had gotten physical, so I figured he was in for assault.”

Bruce shakes his head. “Zucco never pressed charges. He would have had to explain the bruises on Kori and Roy, too. No, they got Jay for petty theft and resisting arrest.”

“He’s scared of something,” Dick says. “He’s scared that we’ll learn something about him and, I don’t know. Kick him out.”

“He’s scared of _me_ ,” Bruce huffs bitterly.

“Well, yeah,” Dick frowns. “You’re his legal guardian, you could technically decide to send him away.”

“No,” Bruce sighs. “He’s _scared of me_. He told me. I don’t know what to do about it.”

Dick bites his lip, pensive. “I don’t think that’s the problem. He, err. He was pretty adamant about the whole kicking him out thing, dad.”

“He _talked to you_ about it?”

“I’ve got one of those faces,” Dick says flatly. “People talk to me.”

Bruce chuckles darkly. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Yes.” He wants to say more, but at the same time there is a knot at the base of his throat, something telling him that he’s spilling secrets that aren’t his.

He doesn’t have to fight with himself for too long anyway, because Clark appears at the doorframe, knocks his knuckles against it to catch their attention.

“Hey,” he smiles. “You guys alright?”

Dick sees the way Bruce turns towards him instinctively, how his body relaxes and his mouth curls into a warm grin. It’s beautiful and comforting, and it has always meant _home_ just as much as everything else around them. The trust his parents have in each other is the real roof above his head.

Clark walks to them, clasps Dick’s shoulder and kisses Bruce on the temple before sitting at the table.

“I’m going to go,” Dick says and gets up, because suddenly he knows this is about to turn into an impromptu family meeting, and he’s not sure he’s up for that right now. “I have—homework. And stuff.”

“Tomorrow is Saturday,” Clark frowns. “And your school is closed on Monday.”

“Homework,” Dick repeats, his voice slightly strangled. Bruce must have seen the panic in his eyes, because he just shakes his head, laughing.

“Let him,” he tells his partner, smiling fondly. “I need to talk to you about something in private anyway. Dick, we’ll resume this conversation later.”

He disappears up the stairs hurriedly and almost walks into Conner, who for some reason is running up the corridor quite frantically. It all becomes clear when Dick hears Damian yell and Tim _shriek_.

“You went into his room without knocking,” Dick guesses.

“Can I hide in yours?” Conner just asks, not bothering to confirm or deny. “He went at Tim with, err, a telescope?”

Dick raises an eyebrow. “And you abandoned him in there?”

“I love Tim,” Conner says solemnly, “But I love being alive more.”

“Leave it to me,” Dick sighs.

Damian has Tim backed up into a corner, and he’s waving a flying kite aggressively at him. The telescope Bruce got him for Christmas last year is laying on the floor, disassembled but not broken.

“Dick,” Tim says, his voice oozing with relief. He could probably remove Damian with no difficulty, and that’s almost always the case when they fight, but not without hurting Damian in the process, and that’s just not who Tim is. Dick suspects it will happen one day anyway, and maybe that’s what Damian needs, but he’s not going to say that last part out loud.

“Dami,” Dick says. “Put that down, you could seriously hurt him.”

“They were trying to steal stuff from my room,” Damian shakes his head, sounding scandalized and betrayed.

“I told you,” Tim says, shaking his head, “I just wanted to show something to Kon.”

“Put the kite down, Dami,” Dick repeats, a little firmer this time. “Tim will apologize if he has to, but not while you’re pointing a sharp object at his eye.”

For a moment Damian doesn’t budge, and no one says anything, but then he lowers the kite and lets it drop to the floor. Crossing his arms on his chest, he turns to Dick with an expression that clearly spells _Satisfied?_ Tim immediately extracts himself from where he was trapped against the wall and goes to stand next to Dick.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “You weren’t there and I just wanted to borrow a book for one second to show something to Kon. That’s all. I don’t…” he sounds really tired and upset, and Dick’s stomach twists in sympathy, “I’m really trying, Damian, okay? But you have to try too, or it just won’t work.”

“I don’t want to try,” Damian snarls. “I do not see why I have to. You’re not my brother, and pretending that I enjoy your company will not change that.”

“ _Damian_ ,” Dick exclaims, appalled. “Take that back, what the hell.”

“No,” Tim says sadly. “It’s okay.”

He doesn’t look okay. He looks devastated and exhausted, and his shoulders are trembling, like he’s holding back tears. Dick wants to hug him, but he knows Tim won’t go for it, not in front of Damian, so he just lets Tim leave the room.

“That was insensitive and hurtful and you _will_ apologize,” he admonishes once Tim is out of earshot. Then, softer, sitting on the edge of Damian’s bed: “I know you don’t really believe that.”

Damian looks away, cheeks burning with shame. “I do.”

“No,” Dick says, “You really don’t.” He allows his little brother some time to swallow that, to gather the courage to look at him again. “It doesn’t make you a traitor, you know? That you love us? You can love us and your mom’s family too.”

“Grandfather says I can’t,” Damian says, and suddenly his voice is very quiet, and he sounds young and terrified.

“Dami, come sit next to me.”

He does, and at first he leaves some space between them, but Dick just looks at him intently and then Damian is scooting closer, until their sides are touching. His head bumps into Dick’s arm and his leaves it there, resting.

“I wasn’t really going to hurt Drake,” he says after a short silence.

“You could start by calling him Tim,” Dick says severely, but not unkindly. “And yes, I know. Just like I know you didn’t mean any of that sh— _crap_ about him not being your brother.”

“I can’t apologize now,” Damian says, staring at his feet. “He will think you made me do it.”

“Not everyone spends their time calculating human interaction, Dami. Just say you’re sorry. Besides, I kinda did make you do it,” Dick huffs, smirking. “Hey,” he says, moving so he can look Damian in the eye. “You know that’s bullshit, right? This whole _having to pick a side_ thing? You don’t have to, ever. Both your mom and our dad love you very much, and they’re both your family. And Tim isn’t a threat. Dad didn’t adopt him because you weren’t enough.”

“Of course I’m enough,” Damian sniffs disdainfully, but Dick sees right through him and opens his arms in invitation, and Damian dives into the hug.

“Yeah, you’re a handful alright,” they both hear Bruce scoff. Dick meets his eyes over Damian’s head. He’s standing at the door, clearly trying not to intrude. “Don’t worry, I really only heard that one last sentence.”

“Father,” Damian hiccups, detaching himself from Dick, and then he makes a horrified face when he realizes he’s been crying.

“Yes, it’s me,” Bruce says, infinite tenderness in his voice, and Dick’s heart swells with love for both of them. Damian jumps off the bed to run into his father’s arms, and Bruce scoops him up and leaves with him, Damian’s chin pillowed on his shoulder, his small hands grasping at the back of Bruce’s pullover.

 

\--

 

“You look… suspiciously unharmed,” Conner frowns.

“Dick is good at handling miniature terrorists,” Tim sighs. “Wait, was that racist? I feel like it was racist.”

And there he is. Always turning everything into a joke—and he’s good at it, too. If Conner didn’t know him inside out, better than he knows himself, he would probably fall for it.

“Tim,” he says.

Tim just looks at him, and then looks _away_. Conner’s pretty sure what he’s feeling isn’t normal. The way he craves Tim’s smiles, the comfortable warmth of Tim’s happiness around him, how he would do anything to make it last. It’s scary and powerfully familiar at the same time. In the rare instances where he’s being honest with himself, Conner knows. He has loved Tim fiercely in every way there is since he was nine.

“I’m fine,” Tim mutters, teeth gritted.

Conner really, _really_ hates Damian.

“I heard what he said,” he admits finally. “He was being… pretty loud,” he grimaces apologetically.

“I’m fine,” Tim repeats. “It’s nothing I didn’t already know.”

“Okay,” Conner says. “Okay.” Tim still isn’t looking at him. He has moved to his desk now, has taken upon rearranging the scattered notebooks into a pile. As far as Conner can see, he’s ordering them by color. “Hey,” he calls. “Hey, asshole.” Tim rolls his eyes and finally, _finally_ he turns around. “Come outside with me, let’s throw a few balls.”

“You are completely insane,” Tim says, but he’s smiling faintly. “It can’t be more than thirty-five degrees out there, do you want us to die?”

“You are weak and you will not survive the winter,” Conner grins.

Tim caves, because he always does when Conner really insists. They find a football in the training room and throw it around for a while, until Tim’s cheeks are bright red from running around and no one is feeling the cold anymore. Tim takes off his hoodie and tosses it to Conner, and then he’s racing towards him like a crazy bulldozer. They fall on the grass and roll together, laughing. Conner stabilizes them with one foot on the ground, and he’s almost sitting on Tim, keeping him down. There are twigs in his jet black hair and he’s grinning, exhilarated. Conner thinks, _if you were a girl I would kiss you right now_.

Conner thinks, _ah, crap_.

 

\--

 

The Kents arrive on Sunday afternoon. Clark has been subtly buzzing since he got his mother’s text informing him that they had landed, and by the time the car pulls up in the driveway, he’s positively glowing, unable to remain in one place for more than two consecutive seconds. It’s the cutest thing Bruce has ever seen.

He’s at the door to greet his parents as they exit the Bentley, but before he can even get a word out, Damian _sprints_ through the entrance hall and jumps into Martha Kent’s arms. She lets go of her handbag and shrieks happily, hugging him close to her heart; and behind her Jonathan Kent is smiling fondly, shaking his head.

“Hey, Ma,” Clark says, and then he’s embracing her too, sandwiching Damian between them. Damian looks absolutely delighted.

“Bruce!” Martha beams at him once her son lets her go and Damian complies and untangles himself from her arms.

It’s still foreign to him, even after all these years. The inexplicable love she has for him, the easy acceptance. She kisses him on both cheeks and asks about his day, and he can’t help but grin at her while he tells her about his latest expansion plans.

Their reunion with the rest of the kids is a joy to watch. Conner was practically raised by the Kents for the first five years of his life, when Kara was still trying to find her footing as a single mother. Martha’s whole face lights up when she sees him as she enters the living room, and Bruce’s chest hurts a little, but it’s the good kind of hurt. Clark shifts discreetly so that his shoulder and Bruce’s can touch, and he finds Bruce’s hand and links their fingers. His thumb gently strokes Bruce’s palm, and Bruce loves him so much he’s almost choking on it. Dick is excitedly telling Jonathan about the national championship, Tim nodding enthusiastically next to him; and for a second there everything is in perfect equilibrium.

Jason appears, tiptoeing, not daring to cross the doorframe. From behind him, Alfred—who very probably had to physically drag him downstairs—shares a knowing look with Bruce.

“Jay,” Bruce says, “Come say hi.”

Jason just stares at him, his expression a strange mix of uneasiness and hostility.

Martha turns to him, all maternal softness. “Is that Jason? Oh my, look at you!”

“It’s nice to meet you, ma’am,” Jason greets her awkwardly, still not moving.

“ _Tsk_ , none of this nonsense with me, young man,” Martha purses her lips. “It’s Martha.”

“I—” Jason stutters, “I don’t—”

Jonathan comes to his rescue, extending his hand. “She can be a little too much,” he tells him secretively, earning an offended huff from his wife. “I’m Jonathan.”

Jason shakes his hand gratefully. “Jason,” he replies automatically.

The uncomfortable silence Bruce was dreading doesn’t have time to settle, because Alfred, angel from above that he is, clears his throat to get everyone’s attention and proceeds to send them all to sit down and have tea like civilized people. Jason makes a beeline for the spot next to Dick on the couch, and Dick offers him a reassuring smile and scoots closer.

Tim launches into an epic retelling of Conner’s last game, talking animatedly in a way Bruce knows he only allows himself at home, where he feels safe. His heart is torn between possessive gladness and worried concern, like every time Tim unwillingly reminds them of his fragility. Jonathan is beaming with pride as Tim recounts how Conner scored the winning point, and Martha presses a kiss to Conner’s cheek, rubbing his arm affectionately. Bruce’s gaze slides back to Jason. His fists are clenched, tensely resting on his knees, and he’s biting his bottom lip. Dick shoots him a sad glance, too furtive for Jason to notice.

On Bruce’s left, Clark is laughing heartily at something his father just said, shoulders shaking. He’s warm and solid against Bruce’s side, the steadiest point in Bruce’s shaky universe, like a pillar. Alfred pours him another cup of Darjeeling and Bruce puts a hand on his forearm, gentle.

“Sit with us, Alfred.”

“Sir…” the man who raised him starts, but Bruce just arcs an expectant eyebrow.

“It’s a family holiday. Sit with us.”

Alfred sets down the tray he was holding and does.

 

\--

 

“Are you hiding again?” Dick’s soft chuckle takes Jason out of his daydreaming.

“No, I was just thinking.”

Dick leans back against the wall, perfect picture of nonchalance. “Come downstairs, we’re playing board games.”

“Ah,” Jason snorts, “I _knew_ I heard someone screaming.”

“We have that Gotham limited edition Monopoly and Tim bought Wayne Tower. Damian took it as a personal affront.”

“How many dead?”

“Grandma knows how to rein him in,” Dick smiles.

Jason whistles. “I’m impressed.”

“Well, you can keep being impressed in the living room. Come on, Jay, you can’t avoid them forever.”

Jason takes a deep breath and reminds himself Dick is trying his best and doesn’t deserve to get punched in the face just because family gatherings make Jason straight up want to _vomit_. “I’ll join you in a bit,” he lies.

Dick nods, but he doesn’t leave. Maybe if Jason were to fake needing the bathroom..?

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Dick demands.

“Nothing,” Jason grunts through clenched teeth. “I said I’ll be there.”

“Yeah, and we both know you’re stalling. Just tell me what’s wrong and I’ll make an excuse for you.”

Jason was going to repeat _nothing_ , he swears. But his traitorous mouth apparently decided that he doesn’t get a say, and he hears himself whisper, “I miss my abuela.”

Dick doesn’t say anything for a while, just looks at Jason with his desolated big blue eyes, like Jason’s something to be sad about. He’s not. He’s doing fine, relatively speaking. His sadness is his own, he doesn’t need Dick and his weird hard-on for misery.

“Is she—?” Dick asks finally.

Jason scoffs, “You think I’d be in foster care if she was alive?”

“Sorry,” Dick mutters. “Stupid question, sorry.”

Jason shrugs. “You didn’t know. Whatever.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Do I look like someone who wants to talk about it?”

“Honestly?” Dick asks. “Yes, you do. You look like someone who _needs_ to talk about it, at least.”

“Yeah,” Jason huffs bitterly, “You don’t get to tell me what I need, golden boy.”

“I can ask Tim to come up,” Dick offers, imperturbable.

“What? What for?”

“Because he’s obviously the only one of us you actually can stand.”

Jason presses the bottom of his palm to his temple tiredly. “Are we doing this again? I don’t hate you. I don’t know in how many languages I need to tell you.”

“It wasn’t a reproach,” Dick says, but he sounds like someone who’s swallowing back blame. Jason pushes himself off the windowsill.

“You know what? You want honesty?” There’s a small voice at the back of his mind telling him he’s going to regret this very soon, but Jason ignores it. He’s mad as hell, and he’s hurt, and his knuckles are itching with the need to hit something. He can make Dick understand with words, or he can break his nose, and the first option is preferable for the both of them. “The truth is that I don’t want you around me because you can’t mind your own _fucking_ business.”

Dick takes a step back, visibly wounded. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t have to ask me if I’m okay every two seconds. You don’t have to check on me when we’re at school. You’re not entitled to my past. You’re not entitled to _anything_ about me. You _certainly_ didn’t have to punch Tony for me, as if I need your protection. I don’t. I’m not some fragile thing, and I’m not your responsibility. You already have a little brother, and frankly, maybe you should pay a little more attention to _him._ ”

He says all that without stopping to catch his breath even once, and by the end he’s panting a little, and his voice is rough around the edges. Dick is staring at him, the line of his jaw tense as a wire.

“Okay,” he just says, and without another word he leaves Jason’s room.

There’s a part of him that wants to follow Dick, wants to grab him by the arm and bring him back so Jason can sit him down and yell at him some more. There’s a part of him that already wants to beg for Dick’s forgiveness. In the end, neither part wins. Jason just takes a step and falls back onto his bed, his forearm thrown over his eyes. His gut feels like someone has tied it up like a ribbon on top of a birthday present, an elaborate knot of guilt and humiliation.

He can hear laughter erupting from the first floor, vibrant and warm. Conner shouts something unintelligible and Dick exclaims loudly, his voice steady, as if nothing’s happened.

There is a family, downstairs. The stairway has never felt more like an impenetrable barrier.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy shit, y'all. no, you're not dreaming, this IS an update.  
> i have exactly 0.002 seconds so this isn't gonna be the lengthy author's note i wish i could leave, but long story short: i'm immensely sorry for the delay, real life has been so crappy i honestly don't even know anymore, i hope you enjoy the chapter and that you haven't all forgotten about me.  
> hummy, you are a star in my night sky, thank you for being the best beta in the world. and a huge thanks to all of you who kept sending me asks on the fv blog or who interact about it on twitter with me. you're my motivation and i love you.

At seven in the morning sharp on Wednesday, they’re all stacked in one of Bruce’s cars. It’s a large SUV, so it’s not like they’re piled up on one another or anything, but it means Jason finds himself stuck between Tim and Dick with no other seating option available. Fortunately for him, Dick is so out of it he doesn’t seem to remember he has all the reasons in the world to be mad at Jason, and spends the entire ride with his face buried in a thermos of steaming coffee. Tim, on the other hand, is entirely too awake for someone who woke up at six after going to bed at two in the morning.

The Wayne family volunteers every year at a local soup kitchen the day before Thanksgiving. Bruce’s foundation obviously does a lot more than that, as far as charity work is concerned, but this is symbolic. _This is important_ , Clark told Jason on Sunday evening when he informed him of the family’s program for the next days. Jason thinks it’s a whole load of bullcrap, but he’s not going to say that out loud. If it helps the rich people sleep better at night, who is he to judge?

It feels immensely weird, walking in and seeing _his world_ through the eyes of someone on the other side. Most folk who come here are too old for their experiences to really resonate with Jason’s, but they all have one thing in common: they know what it’s like to sleep on the harshness of pavement, shivering under the moon. In clothes worth more than a month of rent in his mom’s old neighborhood, belly comfortably full from the royal breakfast Alfred made for them before they left, Jason has never felt more like an imposter. He doesn’t belong with the Waynes—that he has known since the very beginning. But he doesn’t belong here anymore either, he realizes.

Bruce is already rolling up his sleeves, chatting casually with the people that run the place. There’s an easiness to his movements as he picks up boxes and carries them to the kitchen, a routine; like he does that sort of thing more often than just once every 365 days. Dick must have caught him staring, because he moves closer to Jason and says, “He used to come help here all the time.”

There is pride in his voice, but there is something else too, something Jason can’t pinpoint. A sense of wonder, maybe.

“He doesn’t anymore?”

“He has us,” Dick says, and he sounds a little guilty.

Jason wonders if he should apologize. Dick is talking to him as if Jason didn’t shout at him yesterday, as if Jason didn’t tell him to get the hell out of his life. He opens his mouth to ask if they’re okay, but Dick’s attention has already moved to the girl who just requested his help to peel potatoes.

In the end, Jason ends up surveying three giant pots of boiling vegetables, stirring from time to time. Tim and Conner are chopping carrots in silent but agreeable companionship, and at some point someone turned on the radio, which means Dick is humming lightly from his side of the counter. Jason’s mind drifts to Roy, to cold winter nights spent huddling close together with a Styrofoam cup held precariously between freezing fingers. Later, as he serves a bowl of Minestrone to a young man with crazy blond hair and fresh bruises on his arms, blue and purple swirling almost prettily around tiny holes Jason knows the meaning of all too well, he thinks of Roy again. The idle pain of missing him is almost subterranean now—still there, still _so very there_ , but buried deep inside. Jason is too used to violence and to the sharp sting of blades and nails to recognize that kind of sorrow. It’s a comfortable sadness, easy to wrap oneself into, easy to ignore. He shakes his head and searches for Dick with his eyes before fully realizing what he’s doing. Dick is smiling—always smiling, always radiant—and chatting animatedly with a group of guys in their twenties dressed in ratty clothes, his voice sweeter than honey, his eyes warmer than mulled wine. Jason envies the easiness of his gentleness, the way Dick wields kindness like a weapon. All Jason has are his fists, and even those are not enough sometimes, even those couldn’t protect him when he needed it the most. Maybe if he was more like Bruce, slipping into different personas like one changes shirts, maybe he could have shielded himself. Or maybe what he needed was to be like Richard Wayne, slipping between everyone’s fingers like water, an acrobat in every aspect of his life, like a fit of laughter that reverberates against the walls. When Dick enters a room all faces turn to him, and Jason hates being seen but he thinks he wants this anyway, wants whatever Dick has that makes people gravitate around him like lost planets seeking a sun. Jason is tired of being the black hole, the villain of the story. He’s tired of the bitterness still sticking to his palate.

He escapes through the kitchen’s backdoor to go smoke a cigarette outside as soon as Tim comes up to man the counter. There are many volunteers working today anyway, it’s not like he’ll be missed or anything, and it’s not like he’s going to be much help if his hands keep shaking like they’ve been for a while now. Maybe it’s this fucking place, how every time he looks up he can see ghosts hanging from the ceiling, and not all of them wear his mother’s face. Twelve year old Jason is always hanging out in the back of Jason’s mind, but today he’s particularly loud, and he is scared, too. This isn’t even his part of Gotham. He hasn’t heard a word of Spanish all morning, and most of the guys that have come in are war veterans. There’s virtually no risk of running into old friends, and yet Jason is trembling, constantly alert, ready to run.

He takes a long drag of nicotine and looks away, to the horizon, to the skyline. The buildings around him are grey and sad, towers of concrete. The Manor’s beauty is always an insult to those less lucky than he is, but right at this moment he feels it particularly deep, guilt branded on his body.

“Hey,” Dick says, and Jason almost jumps out of his own skin. Dick’s standing on the porch, hands fisted inside his pockets. He looks painfully beautiful, black hair falling a little in front of his eyes, mouth curled upwards. Jason doesn’t want any more expensive pretty things around him.

“Hey,” he says anyway. The anger from the day before is all gone, evaporated. He wants Dick to forgive him, even if something tells him that’s not gonna be necessary. There has to be something wrong with him, with how his emotions are like the city’s weather. Unpredictable, and never kind. “Listen,” he starts, “About yesterday—”

“Forget it,” Dick shrugs, interrupting him. “You were right. I suck at this.”

“You really don’t,” Jason shakes his head, hating Dick a little for making him admit that. “I just—I take everything the wrong way, okay? Because I’m not used to people who can afford to be nice just to be nice. Where I come from, everything has a price.”

“Everything has a price everywhere,” Dick says quietly.

“No,” Jason says gravely. “No.”

“See?” Dick smiles sadly. “I suck at this.”

Jason opens his mouth to reply, to tell him he’s making it about _himself_ again, but before he can even think of how to formulate that in a way that doesn’t end in yet another screaming match, a flash goes off, blinding him a little.

“Mother _fucker_ ,” Dick swears. “Jason, get back inside.”

“Are these—are these—?” Jason stammers, bewildered.

“Yeah,” Dick grits out, visibly tense now. “Hey, assholes! This is private property,” he yells. Another flash goes off.

Behind the fence and the bushes, two photographers are pointing their cameras at them. Now that they’ve been discovered, they don’t seem to have any qualms about being seen. “Richie,” the tallest calls out. “Richie, give us a smile.”

Dick places himself in front of Jason and presses his palm to Jason’s hip, pushing him towards the door. “Get back inside,” he asks again. Jason obliges, but he doesn’t close the door, keeps staring at the surreal scene unfolding before his eyes.

“Is that Brucie’s new boy?” the paparazzi grins. “Come on, sweetheart, just one picture.”

Dick turns to them, his expression icy. “If you print any of these, my father will drag your asses to court until you are left with _nothing_.” He then reenters the building and slams the door behind him.

Jason gapes at him. “Are you _fucking shitting me_.”

“I wish,” Dick sighs. “I hadn’t seen any of these fuckers in a while. There was a huge scandal a while ago with a picture of Tim, no one really dares go after us like they used to. I remember my first years at the Manor— _that_ was pretty wild.”

“I can’t believe they call you _Richie_ ,” Jason snorts.

“Don’t say a word,” Dick grimaces.

“Oh, Richie,” Jason fake-swoons, his voice gone up an octave. “I thought you said you loved me, how could you leave me for Miranda?”

“I will literally kill you. It’ll be painful.”

But he’s smiling, and as they make their way back to the dining hall, he punches Jason in the shoulder playfully. It burns a little through Jason’s shirt, like the imprint of Dick’s knuckles will stay forever on his skin somehow. It’s a good kind of burn.

\--

The drive back is silent, almost too calm. Tim passed out as soon as his ass touched the seat, his head now lolling back and forth on Conner’s shoulder with every movement of the car, like a boat on the rolling tide. Jason is tired, too. Dick can see it even as Jason tries to hide, even as Jason screws his jaw shut to refrain from yawning. _Who told you your eyes can never be closed?_ Dick wants to ask. _Who taught you home wasn’t safe enough for you to lay your head?_ But he already knows. Jason answered that question months ago, when he gave Dick his old address, when he let Dick see the bruises on his best friend’s face.

“Are we home yet?” Tim asks sleepily when the car halts, and Bruce laughs softly from the driver’s seat.

“We are,” he answers, voice low. “Don’t wake up your brother.” Damian is snoring against Clark’s shoulder, and he has drooled a little on the soft fabric of Clark’s shirt. Dick presses a kiss to his tiny hand as they wait for everyone to exit the car, breathes in the way he still smells like a baby, still smells like the small bundle Bruce brought back home one night eight years ago. His body aches from carrying boxes and pots around all day, but something about standing close to Damian—something about witnessing the easy miracle that is his family under the twilight, too exhausted to feel the pain—eases the weight off his shoulders.

In the bathroom, Jason is brushing his teeth with mechanical movements, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, glassy eyes drifting.

“I don’t want to be here tomorrow,” he tells Dick after a long silence, vulnerable and open in a way only fatigue allows. Maybe he finally understood there is no point in hiding this particular struggle from _Dick_ , or maybe he’s just too exhausted to care. There is a knot tying itself in Dick’s stomach, tugging at his insides, demanding. He almost tells Jason that he won’t have to be, that Dick and him can skip the festivities and go hang around in Gotham all day, away from the crowd at the Manor and the memories neither of them feels like they can face right now. Instead he only smiles sadly at Jason’s reflection in the mirror.

“It does get better, you know,” he whispers. There’s no reason to keep their voices low, but some things are just too sacred, and one can speak of them only as if in a church.

“Does it?” Jason asks, but in his tone there’s none of the bite Dick was expecting. It’s a genuine question, as if Jason still has some hope in him.

“Yeah,” Dick sighs. “Yeah.” He fumbles with the cap of his toothpaste awkwardly, just seeking something for his hands to do. “You know, when I first came to the Manor, I had these really bad nightmares. Pretty grim stuff. My parents falling, over and over. Sometimes I fell with them too. Most of the time I was just up there, watching them, unable to do anything.” He bites his bottom lip, ignores the way Jason’s right hand shakes with an aborted motion. “Bruce noticed I wasn’t sleeping pretty quickly. I hadn’t been diagnosed yet, and the sleep deprivation on top of untreated ADHD made me quite literally bounce off the walls.” He’s talking too much, drowning the essence of his speech in a flow of unimportant words. As they slip out of his mouth he can almost see them running, and he wants to take them back, start over.

Jason is drinking in every single letter, his hand so close to Dick’s on the marble counter. Dick has never felt distance this sharply before.

“You do that thing,” he says. Dick just looks at him, confused. “You talk a lot when you’re nervous.” The inch between them is a canyon. “Do I make you nervous?”

“You do,” Dick says, too honest. “I never know—I never know where we stand.”

“Are you scared of me?” Jason asks.

“No,” Dick replies. His mind is drifting to early October, Jason riding shotgun in Dick’s car, readying himself for a fight. He thinks of the hard edges of Jason’s shoulders, how he puffed his chest and tried to make himself seem taller. He thinks of the blood running down Jason’s face later that night, the sound Jason’s skull made when it collided with the hard table. He knows what Jason is asking.

“You should. You should be scared of me.”

Dick doesn’t know why his breath is coming up so short, why his heart is thumping. “Do you want me to?”

“No,” Jason smiles, a little wolfish, a little sad. “No, I don’t want anyone to be afraid of me. Doesn’t mean I’m stupid. Doesn’t mean I don’t know what people are supposed to be afraid of.”

“What,” Dick scoffs, “You think because you were born in Crime Alley and you speak Spanish I’m gonna piss my pants?”

“There’s more to me than Crime Alley, _bobo_ ,” Jason drawls, his accent harsher somehow, the use of Spanish purposeful and hanging heavy between them like a wall. “You were talking about nightmares,” he adds after a short silence.

“Nightmares,” Dick repeats dumbly, but he recovers swiftly. After all, hasn’t he spent his life dangling off edges? “Yeah, nightmares. Used to have them every night. It’s just… it wasn’t only the dreams. It just hurt all the time, you know? I just thought I would never be happy again.”

“Obviously you got over that,” Jason says flatly.

“Well, yeah.” He squeezes the tube of toothpaste a little too hard, and the bright green gel spills on his thumb. It smells faintly of menthol, sharp and sweet. “That’s the point, isn’t it? Life gets better.”

“Or you die,” Jason remarks.

“Or you die, I guess.” Dick holds his gaze even as he licks the paste from his hand. “But you’re not dead. None of us is. It took Bruce a long-ass time, but eventually it got better for him, too. I know. I was there.”

“His parents died,” Jason shoots back sharply. “Boo-hoo. You think I’m the way I am because my mom couldn’t even be bothered to shoot up correctly? You really think that’s the only thing that’s wrong with me?”

Dick stammers. “I just thought—you said you didn’t want—you said you didn’t like Thanksgiving,” he finishes lamely, as if that’s explanation enough. It should be. He reaches for Jason but Jason recoils abruptly. “I don’t want to fight again,” Dick says quietly.

“Then for the love of God,” Jason starts angrily, but then he bites his tongue, closes his eyes and huffs in frustration. When he speaks again his voice is softer. “Just stop. Jesus, just stop. You can’t help me. We’re too different. Why can’t you just—why can’t you just pretend you get it and leave me alone like everyone else?”

“I’m not very good at leaving things alone.”

“Well, I’m not very good at not breaking your nose, and yet.”

They’re standing so close. There’s another scar Dick had failed to notice up to now, this one right under Jason’s right collarbone. He can’t tear his eyes away from it now. It’s pink and uneven, and all Dick can think about is these big knives Alfred uses to cut bread.

Jason’s eyes are huge and so, so green. Dick feels a little dizzy. He shakes his head, hoping this will clear the hazy cloud that has settled at the back of his brain.

“You’re safe with us,” he says, trying his luck. There’s a fifty percent chance that Jason _will_ punch him, but maybe he won’t. Maybe Dick is right and this is what Jason needs. Someone who holds his own with him, someone who refuses to swallow the bullshit Jason serves. “You don’t have to play hardass anymore.”

“I’m not safe anywhere,” Jason replies, and then he spits in the sink and leaves the bathroom without rinsing his mouth.

The lack of a black eye doesn’t feel like victory to Dick.

\--

Kara Danvers Kent is a beautiful blonde with the bluest and sharpest eyes Jason has ever seen. Her hair falls like a golden cascade on her shoulders, and she’s wearing a blue dress that looks like it was taken out of a fashion magazine. She’s standing in the hallway, bottom lip between her teeth, her Mary Jane heels clicking against the marble rhythmically.

“Mom!” Conner beams at her from the staircase, and her whole face lights up. Suddenly she looks less like she just walked out of _The Devil Wears Prada_ and more like an actual real human being. Conner rushes down the stairs. Jason turns his head away when Kara envelops her son with her arms, the tip of her nose mashed against his black hair. He catches Dick’s concerned glance across the room and almost flips him off, settling for a mature ice-cold glare instead.

Alfred patiently ushers them to the living room where tea and scones are waiting for them. The Kents all sit together on one of the long sofas, Conner sandwiched between his mother and his grandmother. Clark looks genuinely torn for a moment, as if the distance between his parents and him if he chooses to sit next to Bruce will be seven states and not just a coffee table.

This is nothing like Thanksgiving at Jason’s _abuela_ ’s house. Here people gather calmly around British pastries and porcelain cups filled to the brim with Darjeeling as they share polite stories. There is no screaming, the entire Manor smells like stuffed turkey, and without the dramatic music of a _telenovela_ running in the background, Jason can hear Tim breathing right next to him, and he hasn’t been able to focus on anything else for a good ten minutes now. That’s how he misses Kara asking him about school, all his attention absorbed in the irregularities of Tim’s inhaling and exhaling, almost deafening.

“I think I need some water,” he says when she repeats her question, and he doesn’t wait for anyone’s answer before standing up and fleeing for the sliding door. It occurs to him as he’s leaving the room that there was a pitcher of cold water on the silver tray Alfred brought out earlier.

The table is set in one of the dining rooms they never use for simple family dinners. It’s ridiculously long, all lustering ebony and immaculate white cloth, the silverware shining so bright it’s almost blinding. Jason counts fourteen plates, which is too many for the people currently lingering in the living room.

“We are still waiting on three friends, Master Jason,” Alfred’s voice informs him, as if reading his mind. Jason didn’t hear him approach.

 _That’s thirteen people, still,_ Jason wants to remark. _Or are holidays days out of time and social rules where butlers sit with their employers? Is this why there’s a plate at this table for me, too?_

He swallows back the bitterness. Alfred doesn’t deserve to be tainted by his acrimony.

“I just needed some air,” he explains pointlessly. He knows Alfred’s words were devoid of hidden meaning. If there’s one person who knows how to mind his own damn business in this house, it’s him.

The old man gives him a knowing smile. Jason hates the warmth that spreads all throughout his body at the sight of it, traitorous. “Perhaps you would like to assist me in preparing the drinks, young sir?”

“That’d be great,” he miraculously gets out through the lump in his throat.

“The perfect Martini,” Alfred tells him a little later in the kitchen, “Should be shaken, not stirred.” He pushes the shaker into Jason’s hands. “Give it a try.”

“Is teaching a fifteen year old how to make drinks something you picked up at Wayne Manor, or what?” Jason teases.

“I’m British, Master Jason,” Alfred tells him severely. “In normal countries, young people are introduced to the finer things in life around your age. Now, don’t bend your wrist, that’s a sure way to get a tendinitis.”

“Is this for Bruce?”

“Yes. Master Clark’s poison of choice is a good Manhattan. I will teach you how to make one in a few minutes. A gentleman must always be ready to impress his audience with his bartending skills.”

Jason chews on the inside of his cheek. “I’m not really a gentleman.”

Alfred raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “When I’m done with you, you will be. One does not simply find himself born into chivalry. It is an art, and art can be taught.” He takes out a small glass Tupperware filled with neon red preserved cherries from the fridge. “Pour the Martini into a cocktail glass and add one of these olives. Now, look. Sweet red vermouth, top shelf Canadian whiskey, and Dash Angostura bitters. _This_ one is stirred over ice, never shaken. You serve it straight up in a small round glass with a Maraschino cherry.”

There’s a knock, and Jason turns around to find Bruce standing at the door, watching them carefully.

“I just wanted to make sure everything was alright,” he tells Jason. “You were gone for a long time.”

Alfred’s hand brushes Jason’s arm almost imperceptibly. “I’m afraid the fault is all mine, sir. I requisitioned the young master for some help.”

Bruce shakes his head. “There is no fault. Jay, do you want to stay with Alfred? You don’t have to mingle until we move on to the food, if you’re uncomfortable.”

“It’s just…” Jason grimaces. “It’s just kind of a lot.”

“Okay,” Bruce says. “Okay. But you can’t miss the meal, all right? That’s the deal.”

It’s better than what Jason was hoping for, so he just nods with all the enthusiasm he can muster. Bruce’s shoulders sag a little, tension visibly evaporating from his body, the hard line of his jaw softening. He’s been careful with Jason, lately. Tiptoeing around him in a very un-Bruce fashion, timid and doubtful. It’s all on Jason’s admission of fear, Jason knows. It isn’t very hard to guess Bruce hates the idea of anyone under his responsibility being afraid of him. It has to do with power, Jason thinks, and how Bruce views power. Power, for Jason, has to be won. For someone like Bruce, who was born with power in his hands like one holds a plush rabbit, it is all about deserving it.

There is, in Jason’s weary bones suddenly, a profound need to be held, to rest his body. Like an elastic band snapped back into suppleness, he feels his chest cave, his muscles unwind. The longing in his throat becomes unbearable, demanding.

Oh, to be seven again, to rest his head against a mother’s shoulder.

\--

“I’m thankful for all of you,” Dick beams, all in golden glory. “I am thankful for this house and this family and all the joy it brings me; for my friends, and for white people memes.”

Tim chokes on his peanut. “I don’t think I can top that,” he coughs as Clark pats his back worriedly.

“I am thankful for dogs,” Damian says, glowering at the fried tofu in his plate. He leaves it at that. Bruce is trying very hard not to laugh behind his napkin.

“I’m thankful for Tim and football,” Conner grins, and Tim blushes a deep red.

“I am very thankful one of you is leaving for college soon,” Alfred deadpans when all eyes turn to him expectantly.  

From the other side of the table, Harley winks at Jason. She arrived a little earlier accompanied by a gorgeous redhead in a green gossamer dress with flowery tattoos all over her arms and glossy Doc Martens on her feet who she introduced cheerfully as _‘My wife, Pamela’_ ; followed closely by one of the most stunning women Jason has ever laid eyes upon. Diana Prince’s eyes are liquid gold and her wavy jet-black hair is held up in a perfect bun, and when she speaks Jason can hear a light accent he cannot quite place.

“I’m—” Jason starts, then stammers. “I’m grateful that I’m here,” he settles for in the end. _Here_ can mean so many things. Bruce’s eyes are heavy on him as he sits back down.

When Alfred brings out the pies, Diana insists that she be the one to cut them, and she marks a cross on all of them while softly psalming before letting the blade sink into the creamy pumpkin filling.

“That was Greek,” Tim whispers to Jason when he catches him staring. “She blessed the food.”

It only takes a few moments for fourteen people to devour three pies. In one of the plates remains one lonely slice surrounded by a few crust crumbs. Tim has been eying it greedily for a good while now. As he gets up to reach for it Damian bares his teeth, a dreadful gleam to his eye. “I will decapitate you with this spoon.”

Tim takes a step back, looking vaguely alarmed. The back of his knees hits the chair.

“Master Damian,” Alfred sighs, “There is no need to resort to violence. We still have pie in the fridge.”

The clock indicates six in the afternoon as Alfred offers digestive wine to the adults. He puts a glass in front of Dick, too, and Martha giggles.

“My big boy,” she smiles lovingly. Jonathan claps him gently on the back.

“White people are crazy,” Jason mumbles under his breath, thinking of the bottle of tequila his uncle Pablo used to take out before dinner every night, and how Jason tasted its bitterness for the first time when he was eleven.

“I drank my first glass of red wine when I was eight,” Diana tells him secretively. “My grandfather had his own vineyards. I thought it was absolutely disgusting. The next year at Christmas, he offered me a shot of Mastiha liquor. I thought my father was going to strangle him.” She chuckles to herself. Her carefree happiness is infectious, and Jason finds himself leaning towards her, thirsty for stories about a world he will never know. “When my mother first brought him home to meet her parents, my grandfather brought out his best wine and made him drink until he couldn’t stand, to test his worth as a suitor. British men do not know how to hold their drink,” she finishes gleefully.

“Did you grow up in England, then?” he asks, curious. Even the way she smirks is European, the arch of her wrist aristocratic to the bone.

“My father was a diplomat. He is retired, now. When I was seventeen, he became ambassador here. He left with my mother three years later for Paris, I stayed. Before that it was Athens, Madrid, Taipei. London, once. I don’t remember much, other that the weather was awful.”

“The weather is pretty bad here too,” Jason shrugs.

“Yes,” she laughs, “But the people are kinder.”

\--

As the night falls on Gotham City and a beautiful dark blue encloses the Manor, the grown-ups retreat to the living room with yet another drink, and Tim and Conner disappear upstairs in that noisy way characteristic of teenage boys. When Jason tries to help Alfred with cleaning the table, he gets gently but firmly exiled from the dining room.

Dick finds him on the balcony, his feet dangling into the empty, cigarette iridescent between his lips.

“I put Dami to bed,” he says in lieu of hello. It’s the kind of aimless statement shared only between family, and it makes Jason’s heart ache.

“That can’t have been easy,” he smirks.

Dick sits down next to him, cross-legged. “Nah. He was really worn-out, he started snoring as soon as he landed on the mattress.” He watches as Jason takes a drag, exhales a ring of smoke. “I’m going out for a while. You’re very welcome if you want to tag along.”

Jason considers it. “Watcha gonna do?”

“Dunno. Drive around? Maybe meet with Donna.”

“Could we...” His voice trails off, unsure. He will have to call Roy, later, in the dark of his room. Leave a message at the reception desk of that fucking detox facility three states away Bruce is paying for. _Happy Thanksgiving! I don’t know how to be thankful away from you_. “Could we drive by Crime Alley? I know you’re not supposed to, but if we lock the doors and just—drive through?”

Dick looks at him wordlessly for a long, long time. “Of course,” he says finally.

“You need to stop saying yes to me,” Jason teases, hoping the joke will hide the quivers in his voice.

“I think you haven’t been said _yes_ to for far too long, Jason,” Dick says somberly. “And I don’t say yes all the time. I don’t take your shit, remember? We fight about that often enough.”

The Jeep glides effortlessly through the streets of Jason’s childhood. There are homeless people sleeping on the ground every few meters, litter everywhere. Even within the confines of the car, Jason can smell the putrid despair that lingers on skin and clothes.

“I was born here,” he sighs, points at a small apartment on the seventh floor of a ratty building. “Mama didn’t make it to the hospital, it happened right here. The first person to ever hold me was my _abuelita_.”

“Jesus, Jason,” Dick murmurs.

“We used to have the whole seventh floor,” Jason continues, ignoring the burn at the back of his throat. “My grandma, my mama, my uncles. My uncle Pablo is rotting in a cell somewhere, I guess. Gambling debts. They took the apartment and the car, it wasn’t enough.”

“What about your dad?”

“I don’t have a dad,” Jason scoffs. “He’s a piece of trash. Got my mama knocked-up, didn’t stick around. She was fucking stupid, she gave me his name. Said it would help, said if she could she wouldn’t even teach me Spanish. It made _abuela_ mad as hell. My middle name is Peter, but it’s Pedro, really. Like my grandpa.” He takes a deep breath, averts his eyes from the building, fixes them on the road ahead. “He’s in prison, old man Todd. Got drunk off his fucking mind and ran a lady over.”

“Jay—”

“Don’t say you’re sorry.”

Dick’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Wasn’t going to.”

“You’re a shit liar,” Jason tells him.

Dick ignores that. “You want to get out for a while?”

“What do you think this is, a fucking pilgrimage?”

Dick shrugs. “Frankly? Yes.”

“No, I don’t want to get out. I didn’t come here to pray, I came here to remember.”

In the semi-darkness, Dick frowns. “Remember?”

“That my life isn’t made of pumpkin pies and funny stories about British ambassadors. _You were made of dust, and you will return to dust._ ”

“ _Not all that glitters is gold_ ,” Dick shoots back, imperturbable.

“I give him the Bible,” Jason sneers, “And in return I receive Shakespeare.”

“I just meant—”

“I know what you meant. You can go fuck yourself. It’s all the same, from where I’m standing. The glitter, the gold… all people like me have is dust. If the rich are unhappy, it’s their own damn fault. You can eat your gold, for all I care.”

“You seem to keep forgetting I was born in a circus.”

Jason glowers. “Cry me a river, prep school boy.”

Dick doesn’t reply, bows his head in shame, keeps driving. The moon is high up in the sky, glimmering and pale.

“Jason—” he tries.

“12:09,” Jason points at the dashboard clock. “Thank God, this godforsaken holiday is over.”

“Jason,” Dick repeats, this time firmer.

Jason cocks his head, smiles. He hopes Dick can read it on his face, how hard he’s trying, how much anger he’s had to swallow. “I’m thankful for your sorry ass,” he says. “I’m thankful for that time you punched Tony in the face. I’m sorry I didn’t say it.”

“Hey,” Dick protests weakly, “It’s a nice ass.”

“You’re dumb,” Jason laughs softly.

“And you’re lucky we’re sitting in a car,” Dick shoots back. “Or I would be hugging you right now.”

“Why the fuck d’you think I chose to say it here, _bobo_?”

They’re out of Crime Alley, by now. It still isn’t the rich part of the city, but it doesn’t look like a dumpster anymore either. The streetlights are functioning, which wasn’t the case a few feet ago, and it’s unfair, how Dick is the most beautiful boy Jason has ever seen, even under the crappy white neon. That’s never gonna change, even if Jason hates him so much sometimes he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Dick looks at him and Jason’s world jars, his heart starts dancing the samba.

It’s hard not to feel vulnerable under the scrutiny of eyes this blue.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guuuys! wow, uh. this took… more time than expected. college has been eating away my life, y’all. but it’s here! and i’m relatively satisfied with it! 
> 
> a few points:   
> \- life was so hectic lately and i didn’t get the time to answer your amazing comments on chapter 5. i’m really sorry about this, i truly hate not replying to feedback. every single comment warms my heart and your support in general makes me super duper happy. you have no idea how many times i almost gave up on this verse, and if i didn’t it’s because of all of you, and i want to thank you for that, because ultimately this is a story i _have_ to tell.   
>  \- you might have noticed the rating went up to E. this chapter doesn’t actually go anywhere near explicit (i think it qualifies for a soft M), but there Will be explicit content in the next few chapters and i know myself, i prefer to up it right now when i actually have the time or i’m just gonna forget about it when it’s time and that would be…. not cool. if you want to be warned about the specific chapter where things become ~sexy, please shoot me an ask on the fv tumblr.   
> \- there is some internalized homophobia and vague internalized racism in this chapter. a bunch of characters also make a joke that comes off as biphobic, even if it actually just comes from a place of ignorance.
> 
> i think that’s it? i really hope you guys like this chapter, and it’s a turning point narratively so i’m really!! excited!! to hear your thoughts!!! <3

December arrives in the blink of an eye. Snow settles on Gotham like a coat, immaculate fields of white all Jason sees every morning as he looks out the window. Clark takes all of them shopping on a Friday evening, drives them to a luxury department store and walks directly to the Winter Wear section. Dick picks out a neon blue puffer coat and keeps grinning about it throughout sundown. Jason is too busy having mental breakdown after mental breakdown over price tags to tease him about it. When they come back home for dinner, Bruce mumbles something about tailors, and he and Clark fight quietly about the definition of the words _real world_. Jason’s new jacket feels so heavy in the glossy bag he hands Alfred he thinks the pretty satin handles might break, and that is what _real world_ means, he muses silently. When he puts it on the next day it feels like wearing a cloud, the warmest nicest thing he’s ever owned. Winter here means laughter and snowball fights. It’s funny how poor people aren’t even afforded the same thesaurus as the rich.

On the last weekend before Christmas break, Dick and his team fly to Florida for the last stage of national championship eliminations. Bruce considers requisitioning the Wayne Enterprise jet to follow him, but Alfred reminds him calmly that his presence is requested at the annual Christmas gala of the Police Academy.

“You’re not a Wayne,” Bruce tells Jason on a chilly morning over warm waffles. “I don’t have to introduce you to Gotham’s high society. I want to, though,” he adds. “If that’s alright with you.”

“Sure,” Jason shrugs. In the back of his mind, there’s an incessant shrieking noise that reminds him disturbingly of that sirens blaring scene from _Kill Bill_.

“No one will bat an eye,” Bruce continues. “I fostered Dick for years before adopting him.”

“We all know you’re not adopting _me_ , though,” Jason huffs.

Bruce raises an elegant eyebrow. The modulations of his voice sound foreign to Jason, factice. “We do?”

“I turn sixteen in a few months,” Jason says slowly. It’s not exactly what he _wants_ to say, but it will have to do.

“We will have to organize something for that occasion,” Bruce interposes.

It’s like they’re having two different discussions, like two conversations are happening and Bruce is holding the reins of both, while Jason is still struggling to understand where exactly he’s supposed to stand, on what plan he’s supposed to be existing.

“I’m just saying, that’s an odd age to adopt a kid.”

“Do you want me to pull the official statistics on late adoption?” Bruce inquires sardonically.

“Maybe I just don’t want to be your kid,” Jason sighs. “Ever thought about that? Maybe I just can’t see myself ever being like Dick or Tim.”

“Nothing in this house will ever happen against your will,” Bruce says. His tone has shifted. It’s the dad voice, Jason realizes. He doesn’t think he’s ever had it directed at him before. “But if you think I can’t see right through you, you’re shit out of luck. This isn’t about what you want, it’s about what you think _we_ want.” He takes a sip of his coffee, stares directly into Jason’s eyes. “This is about how adoption makes this _real_ , and you’re afraid of real things.”

Jason’s words are shaky when he replies. “You don’t—you can’t say this to me.”

“I can, because I am your—” the word is right there at the tip of Bruce’s tongue, Jason knows it, but both of them pretend that he doesn’t when Bruce painfully swallows it back, “Because I am your caretaker and this is something you need to hear.”

“Can it be something I hear _later_ , then?”

Surprisingly, Bruce nods. “Yes. I still need to know if you’re accompanying us to the gala.”

“I guess,” Jason says, looking anywhere but at Bruce. “The invitation is for the whole family, right? Someone has to be there to make sure Damian doesn’t strangle an innocent bystander.”

“A mission of the highest priority,” Bruce agrees, deadpan. “Jason… I understand that all this is very daunting. No one is asking you to make that big of a decision right now. I just want you to be aware that as far as _we_ are concerned, adopting you has always been the final outcome we hoped for. I was forced to abandon you once already. This is not something I wish to go through again.”

“I can’t believe this conversation literally started with you telling me I _wasn’t_ a Wayne,” Jason laughs weakly. He really, really wants a hug right now. But this isn’t something they do. It’s somewhere in the unspoken rulebook, probably. Only seventeen seconds of direct physical contact a week, do not let anyone feel the beating of your heart against their chest.

“You’re going to need a tux,” Bruce says. “I’ll have my secretary make an appointment.”

Jason nods, and then he realizes this is probably as good a moment as ever to push his luck, so he asks, “Can I drive up to see Roy for Christmas?”

Bruce looks up from his phone, frowning. “You don’t have your license.”

“No, I mean—I could take the bus.” Then, because he’s learning. “Or someone could drive me, I guess.”

“I don’t see why not,” Bruce answers after a short silence, typing something on his screen again. “We will have to call the center and see about their visitation policy before we make any decisions, alright?”

Jason forces himself to stand still, ignoring the way his body suddenly feels all jumpy and weird, like there’s bubbles under his skin threatening to pop at any moment. Is this how Dick feels all the time?

“Alright,” he says.

“Someone will come in to take your measurements at three this afternoon,” Bruce informs him. “Be on time.”

Jason chuckles. “Well, that was fast.”

Bruce smirks. “Amanda is incredibly efficient,” he tells Jason faux-secretively. “Without her and Alfred, I would probably be ruined.”

Alfred, who has magically appeared in the room as per usual with perfect timing, nods solemnly. “It is the labor of a lifetime, Sir.”

\--

“Do you remember how it was, before?” Jaime asks. Jason looks away, doesn’t say anything for a long time. He can feel the carpet on Jaime’s floor against the back of his neck.

“No,” he says finally. “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“You don’t sound very sure, _hermano_.”

“I remember,” Jason says, firmer. “I just don’t want to.”

“We used to live in Texas,” Jaime says. “It was warm. I miss the hot. Never thought I would miss the hot, brother.” He pauses, swings a little on his chair. “I had a best friend. Did I tell you about my best friend? His name was Tye.”

“No,” Jason says. “You never told me about your best friend.”

Jaime needs to talk. Jason knows that. He was that boy, not so long ago. But the only people who ever sat down to listen to him were counselors and social workers, and even then, they didn’t really care. The only one who ever did was Harley, and Jason knows that’s because Harley used to be him. A kid with no one to talk to.

So maybe he can be Harley for Jaime. Maybe.

“He used to do that crazy shit on his board, man,” Jaime says, and there are colors in his voice. Most of the words spoken under this roof are black and white.

“Maybe you could write to him,” Jason offers. “Do you know where he might be?”

“I don’t know, man. He probably left the reservation long ago. Fuck, I hope so. He was a little older than me. I hope he made it to college.”

“My best friend grew up in New Mexico,” Jason says. It’s irrelevant. It’s relevant enough. “When his father died, he took a truck, left for Albuquerque. He got stopped in the Checkerboard, few miles outside the city. They sent him to Gotham because that’s the only place he had family left in.” He doesn’t talk about how Roy picked up heroin in the coldness of Gotham, how the first thing he did once he got out of that house was bleach his hair. Jason has never seen him with anything else than a bright copper mane on his head, but sometimes he thinks about it, thinks about the deep brown it used to be. Roy used to sing for him in Navajo, sometimes, when he thought Jason had already drifted to sleep.

“People’ve been asking ‘bout you,” Jaime says after a while.

Jason pushes himself up from the floor. “People?”

Jaime turns his face, twists on his chair. “Brothers from the LUG.”

“I don’t fuck with the LUG,” Jason shakes his head. “Never did.”

“Yeah, well, they were looking for you. Said they saw you in the paper.”

The blood in Jason’s veins freezes. Suddenly Jaime’s voice is coming from far, far away; like an echo in a cave.

“Dick said they wouldn’t print that,” he says stupidly, as if that makes any sense.

His friend shrugs, puts his feet up on his desk. “I mean, you don’t have beef with the LUG, right?”

There is a whole movie flashing before Jason’s eyes, in Technicolor and Dolby Stereo sound. “I was with the Blackgaters for a while,” he says, and it’s funny how eight little words can contain so much and nothing at all at the same time. _For a while_ sounds hollow. He remembers it feeling like years. The pink scar on his hand itches. “Never ran into the LUG, though. Not our territory. Plus, I’m not _actually_ suicidal. I told you, I don’t fuck with these guys. They’re next level. All I did was a bit of selling.”

Jaime raises his hands, palms towards Jason. “Man, it’s cool. I’m not judging. We all had to be hustlers at some point.”

“You ain’t hustled a day in your life, boy,” Jason grins. He’s still feeling the chilling bite of fear, but it is not the first time he’s had to keep on going while his bones are rattling. “Wouldn’t be surprised if your punk ass had to look up the word on Urban Dictionary.”

“Okay,” Jaime chuckles. “Okay, you got me.” Then, more seriously: “I know, though. Jason, I know.”

“Yeah,” Jason sighs, his back against the floor again. “Yeah, I know you know.”

It’s a kinship he wishes they didn’t have, it’s a kinship he’ll never wash off his skin. No amount of money is ever going to take the street out of him. Even under the preppy clothes and with the nice haircut, even now that hunger has become a memory, Crime Alley is a powder in his bloodstream. It travels inside his body, sets him apart in every room he dares enter in Bruce’s world. He thinks maybe Dick is the only person in that family that sort of understands that, seeing as he’s still flying any chance he’s got. The circus never left him either. There is a force in him, propelling him, pushing him from trapeze to trapeze. Jason wishes he had something to pour the street into, but the only thing that comes out is violence, and no one has ever cared to teach him how to turn violence into something productive. Maybe this is why it comes out at night, in screams. Maybe this is why his body is never at peace.

He thinks about it again, when the tailor Bruce called in is taking his measurements. As the man wraps a soft meter around his wrist, Jason can’t scrub the images off his eyelids. He smells gunpowder in the air. Bruce asks him to pick a color for the cufflinks and his gaze stops on a pair that looks like two drops of blood.

“This is red beryl,” the tailor explains, with that fake smile salesmen always wear when they’re talking to rich people. “Excellent choice, young man.”

Bruce is looking at Jason with warmth in his stare, pride like liquid amber. Jason closes his hand into a fist and bites the inside of his mouth.

\--

“Holy shit,” Dick grins, his grip tight on Donna’s arm. “Look at this!” He points to his own t-shirt, delighted. “Look at this!”

Donna chuckles. “I know, I know.”

“This is insane! We got like, North Pole temperatures back home and I’m wearing _shorts_.”

“Does he have an off button?” Mia enquires.

“Girl,” Donna laughs, her black hair flying in the wind, her eyes sparkling. “You’ve been here years. Of course there is no off button.”

Dick sticks out his tongue at her as he pushes the door to enter a coffee shop.

“Caffeine is a terrible idea,” Mia sighs.

“I’m just gonna have a Vanilla Bean Frappuccino, you killjoy,” Dick rolls his eyes.

Mia raises her eyebrows. “Wow. To think _I’m_ the white girl.”

Donna hushes her. “Let him have some sugar before we all do something we regret.”

The barista that takes Dick’s order is a Hispanic guy in his mid-twenties, dark hair too short to be curly and skin the color of one cent coins. He winks at Dick as he writes his name on the polypropylene cup, and when he flattens his palm against the wooden counter his bicep flexes, and Dick can’t take his eyes off it.

“The cute ones are _always_ gay,” Mia laments once they’re outside again, drinks in hand. “I can’t believe anyone would choose to flirt with Dick when I’m standing right here.”

“He,” Dick stammers, still feeling a little lightheaded, “He was flirting?”

Donna stops walking and just stares at him for a long time. “You’re serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious.”

“He _winked_ at you.”

Dick drags his hand down his face. “Because my first name is slang for penis.”

Behind them, Mia is shaking with laughter.

\--

“This is the third dude _today_ to try and flirt with Dick,” Raquel sighs, closing the door behind her. She throws her sports bag in a corner. “The Gaydar is a myth.”

The Robins are staying at the University of Miami, where the competition will take place tomorrow, and they’ve been allocated a common room where they’ve been passing most of the time they’re not spending training.

Dick frowns, lets himself fall on a bean bag with a _woosh_ sound. “Hey, I could _totally_ be gay.”

“I don’t know,” Mia muses from where she’s laying upside down, her head resting on Donna’s thighs, “You probably _are_ the gayest straight guy I’ve ever met.”

Donna huffs, shares a significant look with Jed. In the corner of the room, Leonid raises his gaze from the novel he was reading to smirk sardonically. Dick has never felt more betrayed.

“I _could be_ ,” he insists.

“Richard,” Jed rolls his eyes, profoundly unimpressed, “If you were allowed to only take one thing to a deserted island, it would be the concept of boobs.”

“Okay,” Dick concedes, “Okay, that’s fair.” Everyone laughs.

He doesn’t know why it’s bothering him so badly. He thinks about it later that evening, alone in the bathroom, staring at his reflection in the mirror. It’s probably just because of his fathers, how he’s always been sensitive to gay jokes because they’ve always felt like a direct attack on two of the people he cares about the most. But there’s something else, right now, and it’s eating at him. In Gotham, most of the gay people he has met are his parents’ age. They’re friends of Bruce and Clark, sometimes celebrities. They’re _adults_ , and they’re not really part of his world.

But here they’re young and they look like him, and they _see something in him_ , and Dick doesn’t know if the knot in his stomach is disgust or excitement, and it’s messing him up. He knows he’s attractive, but so are Jed and Len, and yet he’s the only one who’s been stopped by boys today, he’s the only one they’ve winked at and offered phone numbers to. Is it the way he holds himself or the way he dresses? Is it the fact he’s surrounded by girls he’s obviously not dating?

He takes his cellphone out of his pocket, scrolls up to the messages Helena Bertinelli sent him a while ago, the ones he never got around to responding to. _Hey_ , he types, and then promptly deletes it. He’s being ridiculous.

_Hey,_ he types again, and this time he just stares at the word, like maybe it will tell him something. _Wanna hang when I get back?_

He adds a _xoxo_ at the end for good measure, wonders if he should apologize for how sudden his demand is.

“Goddamnit,” he mutters to himself, and presses **send** _._ “Goddamnit,” he says again, regret filling his lungs.

_Sure_ , Helena sends back almost immediately. _Pick the place_.

He threads a hand through his black hair, takes a deep breath. There’s a cute café close to their school. Wally takes girls there and they always love it.

_It’s a date!_ Helena replies when he texts her the address and an approximate time. She adds a winking emoji at the end. Dick closes his eyes, remembers the barista from the morning. He places his phone on the ceramic tiles, screen looking down, wonders what it would feel like to be pressed up against the wall by two strong arms, a firm chest where he’s used to the softness and roundness of breasts. He can feel himself harden in his jeans, his breath coming up short, and this is _bad_. He tries thinking of Helena, how she wears her uniform skirt so high sometimes he can see her panties when she walks down the hallway. He tries thinking of Bette in her red leotard, her bare thighs, her smooth skin against his. He’s still hard, but he isn’t sure what that means. God, he needs a shower. He wants to make it a cold one, but he knows he will never be at his best physically if he remains this wired, and he _needs_ to be at his best. He has to.

Under the hot spray, it’s easier to just lazily touch himself, no fantasy required. He lets the water trickle down his tired muscles, breathes out fog. He can feel the pleasure building up in his lower belly, slow white waves. Moving his wrist faster and faster, he lets his mind drift away, panting against the white marble. He’s almost there, _almost_ , but it just can’t seem to happen. Conjuring memories of girls he has fucked, he huffs in frustration.

He slows down, imagines someone strong enough to pin his wrists to the shower wall with one hand.

He comes so hard his knees shake.

\--

When the valet opens the door of the limousine and the flashes go off, Tim grabs Jason by the forearm. Bruce has already walked out, his showy grin camera-ready, Damian’s small hand in his.

“Smile,” Tim says. “Smile, and keep walking. Don’t stop for pictures, but let them have what they can get while you’re going in.”

“Wasn’t gonna stop,” Jason mutters.

“I know,” Tim sighs. “Don’t punch anyone either, please.”

He pushes Jason out before himself, so that his foster brother doesn’t end up last on the Wayne train, the perfect prey. Bruce _is_ posing, one arm around Clark’s waist, which means most photographers have agglutinated around them.

Jason looks good. Alfred did his hair, and it’s neither the usual mess he’s sporting around the manor on days off nor his ridiculous Gotham Prep look; it’s somewhere in between, chic but casual. It makes him look older, sophisticated. The tailored suit helps a lot, too.

“Jason!” a reporter calls, waving his microphone towards them, “Jason, a word? How has it been, living with Bruce Wayne?”

“They know my name,” Jason whispers angrily.

Tim doesn’t roll his eyes, but he does bite the inside of his mouth to force himself not to. “Of course they do.” Then, kinder: “Keep walking.”

It’s calmer inside the Gotham City Hall, but not by much. It’s a different kind of buzz, the aggressiveness covert. Tim, for all his anxiety, has always preferred the journalists.

“Holy shit,” Jason murmurs, his gaze falling upon marble and gold.

“Yeah,” Tim shrugs. “I guess.” At the entrance of the ballroom, they’re stopped by a woman in a purple dress with a WayneTech tablet in her hands.

“Invitations, please?” Her voice is mellow honey on soft butter, but her eyes are elsewhere, scanning the crowd. Tim clears his throat.

“My father was a few steps ahead of us,” he smiles politely. He can feel Jason’s piercing stare on his back, knows he never sounds like that when he’s home.

Purple Dress finally lowers her gaze to really look at him. “I’m sorry,” she grimaces, apologetic. “I can’t let you in without seeing your invitations.”

“You must be new,” Tim fake-sighs, still smiling. “My name is Timothy Drake-Wayne.”

It shouldn’t be satisfying, the way she loses all color in her cheeks, starts blabbering apologies Tim doesn’t need to hear. He knows Dick would chastise him if he were here.

“She called you Mister Wayne,” Jason says later, once they’re in. He looks like he wants to burst out laughing but isn’t sure he’s allowed to.

“Isn’t that who I am?” Tim grins.

“This is ridiculous,” Jason chuckles. He’s not talking about Tim anymore. He’s looking around, taking it all in. The women in colorful silk gowns, the men in shiny black tuxedos, the swarm of servers moving around like ballet dancers, platters in seamless equilibrium on their fingers.

“Yeah,” Tim agrees. “Yeah, it is. Come on,” he elbows Jason gently in the ribs. “Let’s have some fun.”

\--

“I set the timer on my phone,” Clark whispers in Bruce’s ear. “Make your round, I’ll be back in twenty.”

It’s a system they developed early on in their relationship, as soon as they started publicly going out together. Clark lets Bruce do his thing, but he drops by every quarter of an hour or so, ready to rescue him if need be. He only had to actually do it twice in all these years, but it’s a support system, and Bruce needs that more than he needs actual saving.

Clark has been gone seven minutes. Bruce knows, because he’s counting. He’s nervous tonight, on the edge. It’s Jason’s first time at an event like this. He wishes he could stay with him, guide him through the night, but this soiree is an inevitable task he has to check off his list. There’s a senator here he absolutely has to see or Lucius will have his ass. Plus, if his information is correct, someone from the Al Ghul clan is roaming this building right now, and Bruce intends to have a few words with that person. The missive from Talia’s lawyer sits in the pocket of his vest, heavy like a stone against his chest.

“Damian,” he says, his voice as soft as he can muster. “I see the Mayor’s daughter. Why don’t you go and entertain her for a while?”

His son’s peaceful expression immediately becomes gloomy. “But Father—”

“Damian,” Bruce repeats, a little firmer. “Remember what Alfred has been teaching you? About manners?”

The boy looks away, his cheeks a dark red. His left leg is trembling a little. “Yes, Father.”

“Well, consider this training.”

He watches his youngest trot over to the tiny blonde girl in her pink dress, smiles big despite himself when Damian takes a bow and kisses her hand like a perfect little gentleman. His vision blurs for a second and suddenly he can see Damian older, in his twenties, beautiful and strong and impeccably at ease in this crowd, the heir Bruce knows Dick doesn’t want to be. His heart aches with longing.

It’s been seventeen minutes since Clark has left him alone when the man approaches him. He’s wearing a dark blue Armani suit that doesn’t hide that he’s made of hard muscle, and when he extends his hand for Bruce to shake, Bruce catches white scars on the inside of his forearm, rivulets on his wrist. His white hair is held up in a bun, and the beard he’s sporting miraculously makes him look younger and not the opposite. When he grins, he looks like a lion.

“Mister Wayne,” he says softly, the notes of his voice smooth velvet. “Slade Wilson. I have heard so much.”

“I’m afraid I have no idea who you are,” Bruce chuckles, his best idiot playboy face on. Wilson hasn’t let go of his hand yet. When he looks Bruce over, his right eye remains fixated to the horizon. _Glass_ , Bruce realizes.

“Do not play dumb, Mister Wayne,” Wilson murmurs close to his ear, pulling him in before finally letting go of his hand. “Not with me.”

“I know the tabloids like to pretend otherwise,” Bruce giggles, still perfectly relaxed as far as appearances go. “But I’m practically married.”

“My employer sent me here with a message,” Wilson says, ignoring that last quip. “The boy is an Al Ghul. He belongs with his family, one way or another.”

The image of Damian, older and _here_ , which has been dancing before Bruce’s eyes all this time, flutters and dies. _Poof_ , into thin air. Bruce grabs the man by the arm, digs his fingers into his bicep. Wilson is strong, but it still has to hurt. “You listen to me,” Bruce exhales slowly, ice-cold. “I know who you are. If you come anywhere near my son, I will slit your throat myself.”

Wilson just laughs. “Mister Wayne, I’m just here to talk business.”

Bruce tightens his grip. “You tell Ra’s Al Ghul I have a message of my own. You tell him Damian is a Wayne, and he belongs with me. You tell him I will burn his empire down before I let him take my son.”

“You have no idea what you’re up against,” Wilson says as he gently removes Bruce’s hand from his body, but it doesn’t sound like a threat.

It sounds like a mockery.

\--

Tim has just put a drink into Jason’s hands when a magnificent redhead in a silver dress that hugs her every curve approaches them. Jason takes a big gulp of his orange juice to avoid having to greet her.

“Hi boys,” she beams at them, her words like syrup, glistening and too sweet.

“Vicki,” Tim smiles, irritation burning at the corner of his mouth. “It’s so nice to see you.”

She bats her eyelids, blushes prettily. Jason has known many women like her. It’s easy to play stupid when that’s all that has ever been expected of you. “It’s always a pleasure, Timmy,” she says, placing her perfectly manicured hand on Tim’s arm. Something in Jason’s stomach twists. “Are you going to introduce me to your friend?”

“I’m Jason,” Jason says, because his growing discomfort is nothing compared to how sick the fact she’s still touching Tim is making him. “S’nice to meet you.”

He can see it in her eyes, the moment she recognizes his Crime Alley drawl. “Vicki Vale,” she introduces herself. “Gotham Gazette.”

“She handles their Celebrity News section,” Tim informs him nonchalantly, an edge to his voice Jason didn’t know he possessed. Like with the woman at the door, this is a Tim Jason hadn’t met yet.

“A very important job, as I’m sure you imagine,” Vicki chirps. “After all, Gotham wouldn’t be what it is without its First Family, and no one would even _know_ about the Waynes without the Gazette.” She tucks a red lock behind her ear, turns to Jason again, angling her body away from Tim, _finally_ letting go of him. “You must be the new addition to the pack,” she guesses. “It’s funny, that he didn’t issue a statement like he did for the other three,” she muses. Jason forces himself to ignore what that could mean and focuses on how he’s going to get out of this without making a fool of himself _and_ Bruce by association.

“I’m just a foster kid,” he shrugs. He can play the poor orphan. God knows it wouldn’t be the first time. “There ain’t no need for a statement.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Vicki tilts her head to the side. “Brucie could stub his toe on a coffee table and he’d make a statement.”

Jason opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Bruce briefed him before they got in the car, but his mind is blank, all advice evaporating. He looks for his guardian in the crowd, but Bruce is too far, surrounded by important-looking men in suits with American flags pinned to their lapels.

“Miss Vale,” says a deep voice behind him, shaking Jason out of his stupor.

It’s Commissioner Gordon. Jason still remembers the night he met him vividly.

“Commissioner,” the reporter flashes him a smile, but she suddenly looks uneasy. “I was just—”

“Leaving,” Gordon cuts her off. “Bruce has made it very clear none of you are welcome around his boys anymore.”

“Well,” she sneers. “This one isn’t exactly _his boy_ , is he?”

“You’re leaving,” Gordon repeats, a lot harsher this time. “Before I ask my men to escort you outside.”

Tim sighs. “Thank you, Commissioner.”

“It’s Jim, Timmy. I told you a hundred times already. And you’re welcome.” He turns to Jason. “Are you okay, son? You shouldn’t engage with reporters. It’s nasty, what they’re doing, trying to trick you kids into a scoop.”

“I’m fine,” Jason says, a little numbly. He’s watching Vicki Vale disappear, slithering between bodies. “I just—I don’t understand what she wanted from me.”

“Anything,” Gordon groans. “Anything anyone can print on Bruce Wayne is worth a lot these days, since he retired from the spotlight. People here don’t like change, son. They think Bruce owes them every piece of his life forever because he used to give that out willingly once upon a time.”

Jason thinks of Dick at the soup kitchen, the tension in his shoulders, the protectiveness of his anger. He thinks of Dick being seven and small and scared, and the flashes going off, blinding him. He’s angry. _He has us, now_ , Dick had said. Jason is starting to understand what that really meant.

The old policeman excuses himself after a short while, and Jason and Tim are left to their own devices again. Clark drops by to check up on them once, but he’s immediately taken away by an impressive woman in a maroon pantsuit.

“I need to make sure Damian isn’t bothering anyone,” Tim says, checking his watch. “I think Bruce is talking to a senator, there’s no way he has enough focus for both. Wait for me?”

“Sure,” Jason nods. “Wait,” he catches himself. “Are you sure _you_ should be the one—?”

“Yeah,” Tim smirks bitterly. “Trust me.”

Jason stays for a while at the same spot, absently playing with his hands, before he decides Tim can text him if he has trouble finding him. He ventures deeper into the venue, expertly sliding between guests, undetectable. These people would be so easy to pickpocket it’s making his hands shake and his mouth water. He really wants a drink, but he doesn’t think the barman would go for it, and he doesn’t want to risk anyone alerting Bruce that his delinquent of a charity case is trying to get arrested for underage drinking.

“No one’s gonna card you here,” a young voice says in Spanish. Jason turns around, wary. It’s a boy, around his or Tim’s age, dark skin and curly black hair, deep brown eyes. He looks at ease in his tux, his body lax. He looks like Bruce, like what Jason imagines Dick would look if he were here. “Hi,” the boy grins, switching to English. “I’m Miguel. I saw you eyeing the bar and I thought I should help.”

“What the hell,” Jason mutters in his native tongue.

“You should go for that drink,” Miguel chuckles, back to Spanish. “You look like you need it.” His accent is smooth, effortless. Not like Jason’s, not a drop of the streets of Gotham in the way he says his _Rs_ , but it still sounds like home, like uncle Pablo or Jason’s _abuelita_.

“You’re Mexican,” he says uselessly, more of an observation than a question.

“I have an American passport too,” Miguel says, not offended or bothered in the slightest, “But yes.”

It’s infuriating and reassuring at the same time. All he’s seen tonight so far are white people, and it’s easy to tell himself sometimes that his misfortune was written in the stars, in his blood. But Miguel shares that blood, and yet here he is, standing on the right side of the barrier. Jason’s mama was wrong, this skin is not a curse, this language is not a prison. It’s just sheer luck. It’s just this shitty life and the choices neither of them got to make.

“I’m not gonna drink,” he says.

“Your loss,” Miguel shrugs. “Oh, I see my mother.”

And then he’s gone, faster than the wind, leaving behind him the scent of his expensive perfume and a trail of anger in Jason’s sternum.

There’s no rational explanation for what Jason does next. No justification. He’s not panicking, he doesn’t even feel that bad. He’s just pissed off. There’s no need for him to go hide inside a bathroom stall and take out his phone, and there’s certainly no reason to punch in the number he calls.

“ _Hey_ ,” Dick greets him, voice warm like sunshine.

“Hey,” Jason smiles at nothing despite himself. “What time is it down there? Did I wake you up?” He can hear people coming and going in and out the restrooms, the annoying noise of the hand-dryer.

Dick chuckles. “ _Same time-zone. Don’t worry._ ” Jason hears him fumbling with his blanket, and then it’s the feeble sound of footsteps. “ _Are you okay? I’m going outside, I don’t want to wake Len or Gus up._ ”

“No, I’m fine. You should get back to bed, you’re competing tomorrow.”

“ _Jason. You called me._ ”

“It’s nothing. It’s nothing, we’re just at this—we’re at the gala, and I don’t know. I wish—I wish you were here.”

“ _I bet you look dashing_ ,” Dick teases, sparkles in his tone.

“Yeah, I look fine as hell,” Jason grins. He pinches his thigh, because Dick’s fake compliments shouldn’t get to him, and yet heat is spreading inside his ribcage, washing away the rage, softly.

“ _Hey, listen. You don’t have to talk to anyone. If you really—if you don’t feel well, just text Alfred. He’ll fake an emergency._ ”

“Nah, I’m good. I just wanted to hear your voice.” He realizes how it sounds the moment he says it, stumbles to correct himself, panic rising up in his esophagus. “Fuck, no, I just meant—I just meant you understand, and I needed to talk to someone, and Tim disappeared God knows where—”

Dick laughs softly. “ _Jason. Jason, it’s fine._ ”

_I don’t know what’s going on_ , Jason wants to say. “You really should go back to sleep,” he breathes out instead.

“ _I can stay on the phone_ ,” Dick insists.

“No,” Jason shakes his head. “Just—just tell me about Miami, just for a while. Then go back to sleep.”

Dick does. Jason tunes out the world, closes his eyes, and thinks of the curve of Dick’s throat, of the way he throws his head back when he laughs. He can hear Dick breathing through the receiver. His palms are sweaty against his slacks, tingling.

“ _Have you ever seen the sea?_ ” Dick asks.

“No,” Jason says. He thinks of Dick’s eyes, and swallows back, _Maybe_.

 


End file.
